


we could be married (and then we'd be happy)

by Naughty_Yorick



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Complete, Engagement, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time With Each Other, Fluff, Funny, Hand Jobs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 50,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28954728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naughty_Yorick/pseuds/Naughty_Yorick
Summary: Jaskier reached into his pocket, fingers grasping around the little box. He pulled it out with what he hoped was a romantic flourish, flipping it open to reveal the simple gold band inside. “Geralt,” he said, confidently, cooly, like this wasn’t terrifying, “Will you marry me?”Geralt and Jaskier have been playing this game for nearly a year, now: staging a proposal in an expensive restaurant to see if they can get a meal on the house. But pretending to be engaged to the person you're secretly in love with is starting to take its toll on both of them - especially when they're caught in the act.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 348
Kudos: 482





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/gifts).



> For my wonderful frogwife, Fortune. Happy birthday! <3

The restaurant was loud, packed with chattering people: couples, families, friends. Jaskier peered around. There was a waitress at the table next to theirs, and another a couple of tables over.

The box in the pocket of his jeans felt heavier than it really was, weighing him down, pressing against his leg. It was impossible to ignore - not that he wanted to.

There was a natural lull in the chatter. He glanced across at Geralt, who was refilling his wine glass, his plate empty in front of him. Their eyes met, just for a moment.

He swallowed. _Right_.

He stood from his chair - or rather, he slid downwards, settling himself down on one knee on the tiled floor beside the table. He reached into his pocket, fingers grasping around the little box. He pulled it out with what he hoped was a romantic flourish, flipping it open to reveal the simple gold band inside.

“Geralt,” he said, confidently, _cooly_ , like this wasn’t terrifying, “Will you marry me?”

Geralt’s expression shifted, only a little. Only in a way that Jaskier could really read. He stood, the chair screeching across the floor, and he reached out, tugging Jaskier to his feet, and -

“Of course,” he said, voice quiet. And then, louder: “Yes.”

Geralt embraced him, and Jaskier was vaguely aware that a few of the closer tables were clapping. _Perfect_.

And then he did something absurd. Something that neither of them had planned.

Jaskier kissed him. It was only brief - chaste and tight-lipped - but Geralt didn’t pull away. It was short, and sudden, and there was only the _smallest_ twitch to Geralt’s lips that indicated he might be reciprocating before Jaskier was moving back.

Geralt stared at him, wordlessly. Jaskier could feel a flush creeping up his neck.

 _Oh, bollocks_.

~

They walked up the steep hill between the bus stop and their house, both more than a little drunk, a half-empty bottle of champagne gripped in Jaskier’s hand.

“Well,” said Jaskier, grinning. “I think that went quite well, don’t you?”

“Hmm.”

“Oh, come, you got free champagne _and_ that mousse thing. All-round good result, I’d say.”

“The champagne _was_ very good. And expensive.”

“ _And_ free.” Jaskier bit back a laugh. “And we got clapped at. Haven’t gotten clapped at in _ages_.”

“You just like being the centre of attention.”

“And I shan’t deny it!”

Geralt chuckled, rolling his eyes, and they fell silent as they continued to trudge onwards. Jaskier watched Geralt from the corner of his eye, his face occasionally lit up by yellow streetlights and passing cars. The shadows made his face even more angular, his jaw more prominent. Each flash of passing headlights made his hair flash bright-white, almost like lightning.

Jaskier swallowed. There was a tingling on his lips and a hot, fluttering feeling in his stomach, twisted around an unpleasant, lurching guilt.

“I, ah… Sorry about the whole _kiss_ thing…” He twiddled with the loose foil edge of the champagne bottle, looking steadfastly ahead. “Just seemed the thing to do, you know? Really seal the deal…”

Geralt seemed to be thinking. Jaskier waited, impatiently, that sickening guilt feeling growing.

“Well, it worked,” Geralt said finally. “Definitely… made it more real.”

Jaskier felt himself relax a little. “Right, yes. That was… certainly what I was aiming for. Realism.” He continued to fiddle with the foil wrapping, resisting the urge to take a swig straight from the bottle. “So… it’s all, you know. Okay?”

Geralt turned to him, his expression obscured by shadow.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

 _Fuck_. Good question. Jaskier forced a nervous laugh with a shrug. “Just worried I’d gone too far, I guess.”

“When do you _ever_ worry about ‘going too far’?”

“Hah!” Jaskier shook his head. “You’re _so_ mean this evening. Is that any way to treat your new fiancé?”

Geralt hummed - it was the closest to a laugh Jaskier was going to get. “Pass me that bottle, then, _fiancé_.”

He passed it across, and Geralt drank from it as they walked, the expensive liquid dribbling down his chin. Another car sped past, and the little wet trail was suddenly illuminated, spilling from his jaw down his neck to the collar of his coat.

Geralt passed the bottle back. Jaskier held the thick glass lip to his mouth, his skin tingling, letting it linger there. The champagne fizzed sweetly on his tongue.

The quick walk back to the house hadn’t been taxing at all, and the air was cool and crisp - perfect autumn weather. But still Jaskier found himself feeling breathless as he stood back, watching Geralt rummaging in his seemingly bottomless coat pocket as he looked for his house keys. The now-empty bottle swung from Jaskier’s hand. It had been, all in all, a rather successful evening. Apart from the kiss.

The kiss had been an entirely different kind of success - one that he was keeping to himself. Geralt had dismissed his concerns and accepted his apology, and he supposed that was a good thing. He’d acted like it wasn’t a big deal.

Which it _wasn’t_ , of course. It was all just part of the act. Seal the deal, sell the performance, convince the crowds. It was fake: just… a trick.

But, _fuck_ , it felt real. It felt real enough to hurt.

It had been a foolish, impulsive decision. But he didn’t really regret it: not yet, anyway. After another few moments, Geralt found his keys, pushing open the door. Jaskier followed quickly behind, dumping the empty bottle on the sideboard and kicking off his shoes.

He was sure he’d _come_ to regret it, eventually.

Often, after these sorts of exploits, they’d spend a couple of hours lounging about downstairs, watching crap shows on the TV or finishing off the evening with a glass or two of one of their many and varied spirits - usually some kind of whiskey for Geralt and gin for Jaskier. But tonight, with the kiss clouding Jaskier’s thoughts, all he wanted to do was sleep.

Well. He _would_ sleep. Later. Right now he just wanted to be alone with his unusually turbulent thoughts.

He said a hasty goodnight to a bewildered looking Geralt and hurried upstairs, barely even stopping to sling his coat over the bannister as he went. He ducked into the bathroom, giving his teeth a perfunctory brush and having a hasty piss before flinging himself into his room, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it in the dark, as if barricading it shut.

He stood there for a moment. Geralt, it appeared, was staying downstairs: Jaskier could hear the TV mumbling from beneath the floorboards. Stepping away from the door, he tossed his phone onto the bedside table and began to peel off the day’s clothes. Forgoing his usual tatty pyjamas and his nightly moisturising routine, he slid under the covers, pulling the duvet up around him and wiggling about on the pillow, forcing it into a more comfortable shape.

He closed his eyes.

Sleep did not come. It was _impossible_ to sleep, even though he was tired. Even though he was desperate to shut himself off from his own broiling thoughts and rest - to turn those thoughts _off_ , for a few peaceful hours.

It was impossible to sleep, because now he knew what Geralt’s lips felt like. A little rough, a little dry, but pliant, too. Wider than his own. He should have lingered on the kiss, he knew now - sod all the guilt and doubt that came afterwards.

He silently chastised himself, rolling over in bed. It hadn’t even been a _proper_ kiss, not really. It had only lasted a few seconds, and Geralt hadn’t even kissed him back.

But… he might have done, had Jaskier not pulled away. His lips had twitched, after all, even if the movement was so slight that Jaskier could have dreamed it. Perhaps if Jaskier hadn’t moved he would have done.

Don’t think about it. Don’t imagine, don’t dream, don’t _guess_. It was all a game. It didn’t _mean_ anything - not to Geralt, anyway.

The problem, Jaskier thought, as he twisted his legs up and down beneath the duvet, was that knowing - even briefly - what Geralt’s lips felt like was dangerous. Because knowing how his lips felt on Jaskier’s mouth meant that he could imagine what those lips felt like elsewhere: on his jaw, on his neck.

The duvet was hot and thick, weighing down on him, making him feel trapped. But Jaskier burrowed beneath deeper. Those lips, he thought - where else would those lips go? What would they feel like across his chest, or skimming lightly over a nipple? What would they feel like - a little rough, a little dry, a little pliant - squeezed around his—

One hand reached down to grab himself, and the other clamped over his mouth, forcing back the name that threatened to spill from his lips.

~

Geralt forced himself to wait an hour before heading to bed. He watched two and a half episodes of some insipid late-night sitcom, then judged it safe to move upstairs.

It was dark on the landing - no light spilled out from beneath Jaskier’s door. He must be asleep. It was unusual for him to retire so early: he’d clearly needed to get away.

Leaning over the sink, Geralt meticulously brushed his teeth and considered Jaskier's sudden and strange disappearance. He was embarrassed, clearly, for the display of passion he'd exhibited during their little stunt in the restaurant. For the kiss.

The water noisily drained away as Geralt rinsed out his mouth. He cleaned his face carefully with the expensive face wash Jaskier had insisted on buying him, splashing water all over the floor in his messy attempts to wash away the suds. He cleaned up the puddle with a hand towel, then threw it into the laundry hamper along with his shirt and headed into his bedroom, clicking on the dim bedside lamp.

His mouth tasted of mint, and Jaskier.

_Fuck._

He tugged off his jeans, folding them and returning them to their spot in the wardrobe, then grabbed the old sweat pants from beneath his duvet and pulled them on. He plugged his phone into the charger, placing it carefully next to the lamp. He shook out the duvet, rearranged the pillows and then, finally, got into bed.

He stared at the once-fashionable stippled ceiling.

Jaskier had kissed him. And, like the idiot he was, he hadn't kissed him back.

It was a good thing, he told himself. Kissing him back would have been ruinous - the kiss had been borne of excitement and, as Jaskier had said, the desire to sell their little scam. It had been nothing else. If he'd wrapped his arms around Jaskier right there in the restaurant like he'd wanted to, his long-buried secret would have been unpleasantly and dramatically unearthed.

It was better this way, even if he _was_ an idiot.

He twisted beneath the duvet, turning towards the improperly closed curtains. He winced as light from the streetlamp outside slanted across his face.

He’d been foolish to even go along with it in the first place. Geralt had known that eventually their little charade would break through his steely reserves and start to prick at _real_ emotions, ones that he’d managed to thus far keep well hidden. It was inevitable, really - but it was becoming harder to ignore.

What if it hadn’t been a scam. What if Jaskier _had_ proposed to him this evening, like they’d been together for all the time they’d shared a house, all the time they’d known each other. What if the spectacle over dinner hadn’t been the most recent in a series of poorly thought-out hoaxes but actually the culmination of a decade-long relationship?

If it had been real, Jaskier would be here with him now, pressed to him beneath the covers. He’d be asleep in his arms, or at least, asleep _next_ to him: Jaskier always tossed and turned in his sleep, never keeping still for more than a few minutes. Geralt’s sheets would smell of that expensive cream Jaskier daubed himself with before going to bed - chamomile and lavender.

Although, had it been _real_ , they probably wouldn’t be doing much sleeping. A hot, tingling flush built around Geralt’s chest, tickling his collarbone, tightening in his core. The thought thrilled him and shamed him in equal parts. He _wanted_ it, but he wasn’t _allowed_ to want it. Jaskier was one of his oldest friends: he shouldn’t be thinking about him like that.

Yet somehow, the wish for soft domesticity - for holding hands and sharing a bed and fluttering, casual kisses - felt even worse. It felt like more of a betrayal, if that really _was_ what this feeling was. Everyone wanted to fuck Jaskier: that’s how it often appeared, anyway. But the desire for more - for something long-lasting and solid - was less freely given.

If they _were_ together, if Jaskier _had_ proposed, if they _were_ now sleeping soundly - or not - together in Geralt’s bed, then that would mean Geralt had tied him down. It would be like clipping a bird’s wings, trapping a butterfly in a jar. It was unthinkable. Jaskier was free and bright and buoyant, carried by his own whims like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Geralt was steadfast, and solid, and - he feared - boring.

Jaskier wouldn’t want him in that way, he knew. Sensibly, he understood that it wouldn’t do to dwell on dreams - that they’d only end in further disappointment, be it days or weeks or months from now.

But it was late, and outside the house cars were zooming past, and somewhere far away an owl was hooting. It was late, and he was tired, and more than a little drunk. He could indulge, just this once. No one needed to know he was a romantic - and no one, especially not Jaskier, needed to know the object of his disastrously misplaced affections.

He twisted himself up in the duvet, hugging it close, and dreamed of soft lips against his, and the smell of chamomile.

~

The air was crisp and fresh, and heaps of sodden autumn leaves were strewn across the path, piled in drifts against the high fence that separated the footpath from the park on the other side. Geralt tucked his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, regretting not wearing gloves, as he watched Jaskier kick through the enormous piles, scattering leaves in his wake.

He huffed a laugh into the collar of his coat as Jaskier turned around, his face pink where it was exposed to the chilly air. He, of course, was wearing the same useless jacket he always wore. Gerat knew he’d be complaining about being cold on the way home.

They were heading a little further afield this evening, and had taken a bus to the other side of town to find a restaurant that one of Jaskier’s friends had visited a few weeks ago. It was horribly expensive, owned by some out-of-towner with a chain of such establishments, and the servers were, Jaskier had been reliably informed, paid minimum wage despite the ridiculous mark-ups on the food and drink. But the food, apparently, was very good.

Briefly, it was perfect, and Geralt had found himself going along with another ridiculous scheme. Although, _no_ : he wasn’t just going along with it. When Jaskier had described it to him, all faux-innocence, Geralt had immediately understood what he was suggesting and had egged him into it. This was his idea just as much as it was Jaskier’s, although he had a little more plausible deniability.

Jaskier fell back into step at Geralt’s side, pushing his way through the leaves where Geralt sensibly stepped through them.

“Don’t forget,” he reached into his jacket pocket, grabbing the ring box and passing it over. “It’s your turn.”

Geralt groaned. He was much better at being proposed to than doing the proposing.

"Shush your complaining," tutted Jaskier, "acting like it's some grand inconvenience. I did it last time. And in exchange,” he added, like he was bestowing some marvellous gift, “I’ll pay for the taxi home.”

“You’re better at this than me,” said Geralt, looking at the box like it might bite him. “I never know what to say.”

Jaskier shrugged. “You just have to pretend.” He hummed, thoughtfully. “Pretend… I don’t know, pretend you’re madly in love with me, and desperate for us to spend the rest of our lives together, and _possibly_ you intend for us to have lots of lovely sex when we get home.” He shrugged, pressing his mouth into a tight line. “That sort of thing.”

Geralt’s fingers closed around the ring box. “Right.”

He reeled it off so casually, so _easily_. Jaskier was an accomplished actor and, therefore, liar - but even when he _wasn’t_ pretending his feelings sprung from him like fireworks, like water from a burst pipe. Geralt, conversely, struggled to even convey his truest emotions.

That was probably why he was struggling so much.

“Wait, hold on…” Jaskier spun around, stepping in front of Geralt with his hands raised and stopping him in his tracks. Geralt bumped into him, Jaskier’s hands connecting gently with his chest. “What about the kiss? I mean, it worked last time, and—”

“Sure.”

“—and they definitely seemed convinced, so— Oh!” Jaskier’s eyes went wide. “Well, then. Alright! Same as before, then.”

“Same as before.”

Jaskier tilted his head, giving Geralt a curious look that he struggled to read.

“You _know_ ,” he said, “We don’t _have_ to do… all this. You don’t have to go along with my incorrigible whims. We could actually _pay_ for a meal, like the upstanding citizens I know we are.” He paused. “The upstanding citizen I know _you_ are, in any case.”

“You know,” Geralt carried on walking, and Jaskier did a neat little spin as he followed, “I am fully capable of telling you to fuck off.”

“And you do! With true feeling and increasing regularity.” Jaskier grinned. “So you’re on board, then? Even if I am so cruelly forcing you to propose to me?”

Geralt shoved the ring box into his pocket. “Even then.”

~

Jaskier’s friend had been right: the food _was_ very good. They’d fallen into a neat little routine, now - never playing their hand too early. A proposal before the main courses arrived was never so well received as one made after they’d finished eating, and the later into the evening it happened the more likely they’d be to get some sort of free dessert.

 _Some_ restaurants would insist on giving them the full meal for free, some just dessert, some a bottle of something bubbly. A few had given them nothing at all, which was the risk one ran when doing this sort of thing.

Aside from the nerves silently pooling in his stomach all evening, he’d had a good night. Most nights spent out and about with Jaskier were good - he enjoyed his company, even if he complained about him. It helped, of course, that on these occasions they weren’t just sharing a meal as friends: they were on a _date_. A fake date, but a date nonetheless.

Their “dates”, Geralt quietly suspected, were very much like their regular nights out - just with more faux-longing gazes and less flirting with bar staff. He’d often wondered if he should point that out to Jaskier, but had decided it probably wasn’t worth it: it would just be uncomfortable for him.

Their main courses finished, Geralt knew what was expected of him. It was absurd, really, having it all planned out like this. He was feeling nervous about the whole charade - as if they hadn’t pulled this trick nearly a dozen times before - as if it _wasn’t_ even a trick at all.

Like it was _real_.

Every other time they’d done this had been fun and foolish and, truthfully, stupid. He’d _missed_ being reckless, and Jaskier’s little game had given him a chance to claw that back again. He’d not been _stupid_ since he graduated, for fuck’s sake. Jaskier had an uncanny ability to pull him along into schemes and, for once, he didn’t find himself resisting.

But this felt different, in a way that terrified him.

He caught Jaskier’s eye.

Now. _Now_. Geralt stood from his chair, immediately regretting allowing the server to seat them in the middle of the room, then - somewhat awkwardly - lowered himself down on one knee. Jaskier kept his gaze as he stood, clearly holding back a smile, trying to maintain an expression of confusion.

 _Shit_. Everyone was watching him. Jaskier raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, then played along - putting down his glass, bringing his hands to his face, opening his mouth in a little silent gasp of surprise.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, in a well-practiced voice that was loud enough for both Jaskier to hear and for the rest of the restaurant realise what was happening, “I… ah…”

He fumbled before he’d even said anything, and hoped it made the whole facade more believable. What was it he had said before they’d made their way into the restaurant? That all he had to do was pretend? Maybe it was even easier than that…

“ _Jaskier,_ ” he said again, finding comfort in repeating his friend’s name, “I’ve known you for… for longer than I can remember. You’ve changed my life… _mostly_ for the better.” Jaskier laughed, biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself so Geralt could talk uninterrupted. “I couldn’t…” Geralt continued, “...I couldn’t imagine my life without you in it. I don’t _want_ to imagine it. And, I…” He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “I love you.”

There was something like a shift in the air. The knot in Geralt’s stomach tightened, the breath fled his lungs. Jaskier, who’s expression till this point had been politely amused, looked suddenly struck, his eyes wide.

“Marry me, Julek.”

The diminutive slipped out, almost of its own accord. _Fuck_. He’d only used it a handful of times, if that - one long, drunken night back when they were students together, when Jaskier’s grandmother had died, when Ciri had first entered their lives. And _now_.

Jaskier stood too quickly, knocking the table, both of them attempting to grab it to stop their drinks spilling. They laughed - at each other, at everything - then Jaskier was pulling Geralt to his feet, wrapping his arms around him. Geralt could smell the sweet shampoo he favoured, feel his breath against his neck.

Finally, he released him, and when he leant back his face was nearly scarlet, his eyes shimmering.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” he said, the words sounding slightly choked. “Yes!”

It wasn’t until Jaskier was kissing him that Geralt remembered the decision they’d made as they walked to the restaurant. He was expecting something short and sharp like before - a facade of a kiss, just enough to make it look real - but this was different. Jaskier lingered on his lips, his hands on Geralt’s jaw, their chests pressed together. He went no further than that, but even this soft, subdued thing was making Geralt’s stomach flip, his heart stutter.

Geralt kissed him back.

When Jaskier pulled away, his expression had shifted into something unreadable, something soft. His lips were invitingly pink.

 _Oh, bollocks_.

All of his reason had fled, all his senses shot. He was about to say something - _anything_ \- when there was a sudden, heavy hand on his shoulder.

“It appears that congratulations are in order, my boy.”

Jaskier, who could see over Geralt’s shoulder, suddenly froze like a deer in headlights - or like a rabbit about to be mauled by a fox.

Geralt turned, already knowing who was standing behind him.

“Although I think,” Vesemir continued, “you might also have some explaining to do.”

**~**

Jaskier virtually _fell_ out of the taxi, the change he’d been given grasped in one sweaty hand. Geralt followed behind him, and they weaved their way up the drive, knocking into each other.

“ _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier hissed, “We’re gonna be in so much trouble!”

Geralt was struggling to get the key in the lock. “Nah,” he said, “it’s fine.”

The door swung open and they both stumbled inside, dumping coats and shoes in a heap by the door.

“He thinks we’re getting _married_ , Geralt!” Jaskier giggled, as he made his way into the kitchen. “Married!”

Geralt groaned to himself as he followed Jaskier into the kitchen, reaching for the cupboard where they kept the spirits. _Shit_. He had no idea how he was going to fix this. It should be simple, really: just phone Vesemir in the morning and tell him…

Tell him that he, Geralt, the one who _hadn’t_ yet gotten arrested, had been scamming local restaurants with his best friend slash roommate slash _apparent_ fiancé for the past year, taking them for all the free food and wine they could.

This was, he decided, a problem he could deal with in the morning. Any call he made now would only incriminate him further, all shitty excuses and Jaskier’s background giggling, and it was likely that Vesmir himself was busy regardless: the woman who he’d been dining with had seemed impatient for him to return to their table.

He poured himself a whiskey - one of the good ones that Lambert had gotten him for his birthday - as Jaskier put together a gin and tonic using the last of the bright pink gin he’d treated himself to a few weeks ago.

Jaskier raised his glass, clinking it against Geralt’s. “Cheers, _fiancé_ ,” he said, giggling.

Geralt couldn’t help himself. “Cheers.”

They headed into the living room with their respective drinks, Jaskier chatting as they went.

 _“Gods_ , Geralt,” he chuckled, slumping down onto the sofa, “Can you _imagine?”_

Geralt peered at him. “Imagine what?”

“Us getting married. What it’d be like…” Jaskier punctuated the statement with a barking laugh before taking a long swig of his gin.

“What _would_ it be like?” Said Geralt, frowning.

“Uhh…” Jaskier tucked his legs up, twisting against the arm of the sofa so his toes were pointing towards Geralt. “Well,” he said, gesturing with the glass, “We’d do… we’d do married people things!”

“Like?”

“We’d spend all our time together!”

“We already do that.”

“Well… we’d go to Tescos together. We’d, like, _shop_.”

“We do that too.”

Jaskier’s unsteady expression slipped. “Oh, right,” he said, slowly. “Okay, okay: I’d meet all your family.”

“You’ve already met my family.”

“And I’d meet them again!” Jaskier gesticulated, nearly spilling the drink.

“Hmm.”

“Well, we’d…” Jaskier frowned to himself. “ _Huh_. It’d be exactly like it is now, wouldn’t it?”

Geralt shrugged noncommittally, even though his mind was reeling. Jaskier was correct: despite all his fears that Jaskier wouldn’t want to be with him, if they _were_ … not much would truly change.

He was more casually comfortable with Jaskier than anyone else, they already spent all their time together, and Jaskier was always only half a pint or any single strong emotion away from forgetting Geralt’s unspoken rule about _no touching_ and throwing his arms around him.

And even that rule - one that Geralt had carefully maintained for several years - was no longer as steadfast as it once was. It no longer felt strange to have Jaskier’s feet across his lap as they watched a movie, or to lean across him in their tiny kitchen, or to wrestle over the remote or the last biscuit.

They’d even shared a bed, for fuck’s sake, on dozens of occasions: brought about either by necessity or drunkenness or simple sleepiness making one or the other of them too lazy to retire to their own room.

No, Geralt thought. Not much would change. If they were… _that_. The casual intimacy would be more freely expressed, the touches more easily given, and that would largely be it.

Except… Geralt thought back to his musings of several weeks ago, that evening when Jaskier had kissed him.

“Not exactly like it is now,” he said, taking a drink and letting the whiskey sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing it.

“Oh?” Jaskier edged forward. “Go on?”

“If we were married…” Geralt spoke slowly, the booze weighing down his lips, “we’d be fucking.”

Jaskier spluttered on his gin. When he’d regained control, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes sparkling and ears pink. He licked his lips.

“I mean,” he said, slumping against the back of the sofa and extending a single, bare foot until his toes were poking at Geralt’s thigh. He was too close, too comfortable, too _soft._ “If you—”

Geralt shot up like he’d been burned, stumbling from the sofa, cutting Jaskier off mid-sentence. Whatever Jaskier was about to say, it could wait - it would _have_ to wait.

“I should go to bed,” he said, tersely.

“But—”

“I’ve got…” Geralt steadied himself, placing the nearly full glass down on the windowsill. “Ciri’s coming tomorrow,” he said, “and I need to figure out what I’m going to tell Vesemir. I… I should go to bed.”

He didn’t look down at Jaskier, still pressed into the corner of the sofa. He didn’t want to see his expression - be it mocking or disappointed.

“Right, then.” Jaskier muttered. “Goodnight.” Geralt had nearly left the room, when he suddenly called after him. “Geralt!”

Geralt paused. “Yeah?”

“You _will_ tell him, yeah? Tell him the truth?”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He stomped up the stairs, awaring he was making too much noise, then veered straight into his room, shutting the door behind him like there were beasts on his heels.

He threw himself onto the bed. It wasn’t long before he heard Jaskier making his way upstairs too, switching off lights as he went and then, finally, retreating into his room, quietly shutting his door behind him.

Geralt suspected that he was, to put it mildly, completely fucked. Vesemir was going to be furious with him - or disappointed, which was arguably worse - but that wasn’t the problem niggling at his mind, twisting his insides with a kind of panic.

All those hot little feelings, the ignored thoughts, the soft, _stupid_ imaginings had exploded back into life. He’d given himself a single night of indulgence before trying to push them away, and now they were back, wilder and more lurid than ever.

Weeks ago, Jaskier had kissed him, and it had been brief and sudden and over before he’d even really realised what was happening.

This evening, Jaskier had kissed him like he meant it.

And, Gods, Geralt had confessed it all too - a confession wrapped in a lie. A declaration of love packaged in an act, easily brushed away.

As far as Jaskier knew, he was just pretending. But that kiss had felt real, and Jaskier’s shocked, soft expression had seemed real too.

But he’d promised he’d tell the truth. Jaskier had insisted on it. Was it truly so bad if someone close to them thought they were together? Was Jaskier ashamed, or embarrassed?

Geralt lay on his bed fully clothed, above the covers. The room span around him. His eyes slid shut as he drifted closer to sleep - and soon all those fears were melting away and all that was left was the way Jaskier had looked at him, and the pinkness of his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

It was just past noon, and Geralt was looking into the fridge with the vague intentions of finding lunch when he heard Jaskier knocking about upstairs. Jaskier never did anything quietly - even getting out of bed came with a cacophony of clatters and crashes as he made his way around the room.

A tight little feeling - guilt and anxiety - built in Geralt’s chest. Last night, before he’d stumbled up stairs and barricaded himself in his room, Jaskier had made him promise to tell Vesemir the truth. And Geralt _had_ promised. But he’d fallen asleep, and woken late - late for _him_ , in any case - his mouth fuzzy, his head still slightly spinning, and the few hours left of the morning had quickly gotten away from him.

Vesemir would be busy. Vesemir didn’t need Geralt bothering him with such pointless news so early. And, of course: Vesemir himself had promised to keep his mouth shut. Geralt had virtually _begged_ him not to tell his brothers, and he’d willingly agreed with that soft half-smile on his face.

He’d seemed… pleased. _Actually_ pleased, not just that vague acceptance that Geralt was used to receiving from his father, leaving so much unspoken: _I don’t understand, and I may not approve, but I’ll accept it if it makes you happy_.

The truth, Geralt suddenly feared, would disappoint him in more ways than one.

But it was fine. It wasn’t like Vesemir would be planning a wedding, and Geralt knew his word was good:certainly better than his own. On Monday, at work, Geralt could pull him aside over their morning coffee and explain everything. Perhaps this _was_ too sensitive a subject to broach over text after all.

The bathroom door banged upstairs, and Geralt flicked on the kettle, gabbing a mug from the cupboard, anticipating a pleading request for a strong coffee. It was good to have something to do with his hands, and by the time the coffee was made his head was feeling a little clearer. Telling Vesemir on Monday was the right thing to do.

He was heaping in sugar when Jaskier came half-stumbling down the stairs, then padded slowly into the kitchen, still wearing his moth-eaten pyjama bottoms and an old band T-shirt that he’d stolen from Geralt months ago.

“Morning,” Jaskier sniffed, leaning on the counter.

“Afternoon, actually.”

He pulled his phone out of his pyjama pocket, peering at the screen. “So it is,” he said. “Woops.”

Jaskier looked exhausted. Geralt had been anticipating him being hungover, but he didn’t have that peaky paleness to his cheeks that he usually did. Instead, he looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

“You alright?”

Jaskier stretched with a sad-sounding little noise. “Yeah,” he said, “fine. Slept like shit.” He rubbed at his already red eyes. “Whose dick do I have to suck to get a coffee around he—”

Geralt thrust the mug into his hands. Jaskier blinked.

“Oh. Ah… thanks.”

He sipped at the coffee with a satisfied little noise that did absolutely _nothing_ to calm Geralt’s jangling nerves.

“...so,” Jaskier said, drawing out the sound. “Did you tell Vesemir yet?”

Geralt quickly turned away, busying himself with the few bits of cutlery left in the sink from yesterday, making a show of washing up.

“Yeah,” he lied before he could stop himself. “I called him.”

Jaskier smiled. “Was he… alright? Or are you _officially_ in the bad books?”

“I think we’re both in the _fucking idiot_ books.”

A shrug, another smile. “That’s probably fair.” Jaskier sighed, cupping the mug close to his chest. “I should probably put real clothes on. Is Ciri here yet? I didn’t hear the car…”

Geralt shook his head. “Yen messaged earlier, she said they’re running a bit late…”

Jaskier frowned. “That’s unlike Yen”

“ _Yen’s_ never late,” shrugged Geralt, “but Ciri? She sleeps in longer than you do, and _that’s_ saying something.”

“I guess,” Jaskier mused. “Still.”

“Still what?”

“Just… weird. Oh well,” he sipped again at the coffee, sweetened exactly how he liked it, “more time for me to fuck about in my jammies, I suppose.”

“Ciri doesn’t care if you hang around in the house in your pyjamas, you know.”

“ _She_ doesn’t, but what about Yen? I don’t want to ruin anything by being your terrible, slothenly roommate. I’m supposed to be setting a good example.”

“I suspect that ship has sailed.”

“Rude!” Jaskier slumped his shoulders, twisting his neck with a goan. “I _should_ have a shower though, I suppose. Right…” he handed the empty mug back to Geralt, and their fingers touched for just a moment. “Thanks for the coffee, fiancé.”

Geralt watched as he yawned and sadly made his way back upstairs, scratching at his head as he went, his hair in disarray about his head. The mug in his hands was still warm. He couldn’t quite bring himself to put it down.

~

Washed and dressed, wearing a t-shirt that hadn’t been stolen from Geralt and a hoodie that certainly had, Jaskier finally made his way into the living room nearly forty five minutes later. Geralt was in his usual spot on the sofa, the playstation controller gripped in his hands. By the looks of it, he was playing _Fallout_.

Jaskier sat next to him, tugging the hoodie closer around him. “Found your boring son yet?” He asked.

“No,” Geralt reached over and grabbed the remote, turning down the volume a fraction. “But I did just find a boat full of robots.”

“Nice, nice.” Jaskier watched as Geralt’s character blew the head off of some awful, irradiated creature. “Have you romanced the sexy robot yet?”

“Nick?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t romance him.”

“Well what’s even the bloody _point_.” Jaskier grinned. “Not romanceable indeed. Just like you, eh?”

Geralt hummed, and turned back to the game. Jaskier shuffled on the sofa. Perhaps that had been mean. He was still ratty, exhausted after spending all night tossing and turning, thinking about the restaurant and the kiss and - above all - _Julek_. Yes: he and Geralt were both apparently in trouble with Geralt’s occasionally stern father, but being _in trouble_ was something he was used to: he was very good at it.

Being hopelessly in love was something he was very bad at indeed. It was all jumbled up in his head, impossible to untangle. The whole performance last night was just a game, just a _scam_ , but Geralt’s proposal had felt real - his _words_ had felt genuine. And the kiss had been fucking marvellous, frankly, and this time he was _sure_ Geralt had kissed back.

He’d called him Julek. Geralt had said he loved him, and called him Julek.

No wonder his head was in a spin.

Eventually, Jaskier suspected, he was going to have to talk to Geralt about it. He didn’t have to confess anything, he told himself, didn’t need to incriminate himself. Geralt didn’t need to know about his turbulent feelings, didn’t need to know how much Jaskier wanted him. He didn’t need to tell him that he was madly in love with his stupid face, and he _certainly_ didn’t need to know the electric, red-hot reaction Jaskier’s body was having every time he thought back to that bloody wonderful kiss.

He’d make it into a joke. He’d make it into a silly joke, and then suggest they never do it again after being caught in the act. That would probably make Geralt happy - he was clearly feeling rattled about being found out, too.

But he’d talk about it _later_. Right now, his head was fuzzy and his body ached. He could do it tomorrow. If he said the wrong thing - like he so often did - he ran the risk of ruining everything. He wanted a few moments of peace before everything came crumbling down.

If Geralt worked it out - if he saw through his patchy lies and his desperate denial - everything would change.

Jaskier was about to make another comment about Geralt’s game when there was a sudden hammering at the door, making them both jump.

“Did you order something?” Geralt asked, pausing the game and standing up.

“Nope,” Jaskier rose too, following him towards the front door. “Could be a neighbour? Or maybe Ciri lost her key again…”

Geralt unlocked the door. “Yeah, probably someth—”

The door flung open and Ciri stormed in, pushing them both aside and thundering up the stairs. There was a loud _crash_ from the loft as her door slammed shut.

“Uhh…”

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Yen stood on their porch, arms folded, looking furious.

Jaskier took a quick step back. “I’ll just, ah…”

“Oh no you don’t,” she hissed, making her way inside and pushing the door shut behind her. “What the _fuck_ are you two playing at?”

Jaskier glanced at Geralt, whose expression of confusion matched his own.

“Yen,” Geralt said, slowly, “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid, Geralt, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I _really_ don’t know wha—”

“ _Look_ ,” Yen’s voice was low and dangerous. Jaskier couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her this angry. “I can understand if you wanted to keep it from me. I think you’re both _idiots_ , but I understand. But Ciri? Whatever you think you were doing, protecting her, or, or… stopping her from worrying, you were _wrong_.”

Jaskier bristled. “I’d really appreciate it if you could tell us what we’re supposed to have done,” he said, “before you continue to call us idiots.”

“For _fuck’s_ …” Yen reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, which she unlocked. “D’you think you’re being clever?”

She thrust the phone towards them, showing them the picture that now filled the screen.

Geralt and Jaskier spoke in unison. “Shit.”

It was a screenshot taken from, Jaskier assumed, Instagram. A screenshot of a video. A video taken from the other side of the room, pixelated and zoomed in, of Geralt down on one knee holding a ring and -

Geralt started to defend himself - “It’s not what it looks li—” - as Yen scowled at him, then swiped across to the next photo. Geralt fell silent, clearly unable to finish the sentence.

The screenshot said more than Yen’s reprimands ever could: Jaskier on his feet, his arms wrapped around Geralt’s neck, their lips locked together.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier muttered, feeling his ears turning hot.

Geralt took the phone from Yen, peering at the photo. He’d gone completely silent. Jaskier peeked over his shoulder, then spotted the name and icon in the uppermost corner of the screenshot.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” he spluttered in shock, “fucking _Valdo_. Why’s Ciri following Valdo on instagram anyway?”

Yen snatched the phone back. “She’s _not_ ,” she spat, “one of her friends sent it to her, saying ‘ _oh gods, isn’t this your dad?’_ You think this is how she wanted to find out, either of you? Through one of her _friends_ , who saw it on some arsehole’s Instagram feed?”

“Technically,” said Jaskier, pointing at the phone, “That’s from his _stories_ , not his _fee-_ ”

“I cannot underestimate how much I _don’t give a fuck_ , Jaskier,” said Yen, cutting him off. “Honestly! I don’t know how long this has been going on between you, but the whole secretly-dating thing only works if you don’t intend to _publicly propose_ , for Melitele’s sake.”

“Yen, please, it’s really _not_ what it looks like.”

“I find it hard to see how it could be anything else! You should both know how hurt Ciri is about all this.”

Jaskier’s stomach twisted. All his stupid daydreaming about Geralt, about what could be, all the foolish thoughts, had managed to totally ignore the person Geralt cared about most: who needed him most. Ciri. He felt hugely guilty.

“Look, Yen, if she doesn’t approve, or doesn’t like me, it’s fine, I can—”

“It’s not because she doesn’t approve! It’s because she thinks you don’t trust her! It’s because you’ve been keeping a huge fucking secret from her, and she’s hurt, but she’s angry, and she doesn’t know what to do about it!”

Geralt tried again. “Yen, please, I can explain, if you wait—”

Yen glanced at her watch. “I’m already running late, Geralt, and this is something you two—” she shot daggers at Jaskier, “—need to figure out with Ciri, not me.”

“But—”

Yen was already striding back down the drive. Geralt dashed after her, leaving the door open behind him. Jaskier hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should chase after them both, then decided better of it.

He was halfway up the stairs to Ciri’s converted loft room when he realised he should have brought some sort of peace offering with him. Maybe a cake. Nothing for it now, though, especially when time was of the essence.

He stood outside her door, then gave a quiet, tentative knock.

No reply.

He knocked again.

“What is it?”

“It’s me,” he said, face pressed against the painted wooden door. “Can I come in?”

There was a long, heavy silence. Then, at last, a voice.

“Okay.”

He pushed the door open. Ciri was sitting at her desk, her legs tucked up and her knees under her chin, gently pushing the spinning chair back and forth with one hand and gripping her phone in the other.

Jaskier approached her cautiously. “Ciri,” he said, “we need to talk.”

Ciri scowled at him, placing her phone face-down on the desk and lowering her feet to the floor.

“What?” She said, folding her arms across her chest in a way that reminded Jaskier terribly of Geralt, “Is there something _else_ you’ve forgotten to tell me?”

“Look—” Jaskier began, but she cut him off.

“I just don’t know why you didn’t tell me!” She cried, suddenly. “I thought…” she took a breath, and her voice cracked. “Don’t you guys trust me?”

“It’s not…”

“Like I _sort of_ get why you kept it from Mum, but me?”

She was so sad - so _betrayed_ , and even though she was clearly trying to remain calm her eyes were swimming with unspilled tears. _Fuck._ He wanted to jump forwards and give her a hug, to pull her close and promise he’d never hurt her like this - but she was angry, too, and he knew the gesture would only make things worse.

Instead, he dropped down in front of her, grabbing her hands as his knees pressed into the carpet.

“Please,” he said, giving her fingers a squeeze. “I’m _sorry_ , I’m so sorry. But, look, it’s just…”

“Just _what_?”

“It’s not like that. It’s _never_ been like that.”

“But-”

He cut her off. “We’re not engaged!”

She blinked. “...what?”

“We’re not engaged. Never were.”

“But the photos!”

“They’re fake!”

She scowled at him. “They’re not fake. You’re kissing my dad!”

Internally, Jaskier was screaming. Out loud, he said: “Okay, _yes_ , in one of them I _am_ kissing your dad. I… _was_ kissing your dad, gods,” he could feel himself blushing, aware of Ciri’s stern gaze on him. "But it wasn't a real kiss. It wasn't a real proposal."

“What does that even _mean_?”

Jaskier put his head in his hands. “I can’t believe I’m about to get told off by a fifteen year old…”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that It’s just a….” Jaskier paused. It was a _scam_ , really, but saying that to a teenager who he was supposed to be looking after was probably inadvisable. “A prank,” he settled on, finally.

“A _prank_?” Ciri peered down at him with a look of disbelief. She looked astonished - but at least she wasn’t crying.

“Ah, _fuck_ …” Jaskier was floundering. “You’re going to think we’re idiots.”

“I _already_ think you’re idiots.”

“Occasionally, sometimes, we might... stage a proposal to get free stuff.”

“You _what?”_

“One of us proposes in an expensive restaurant and we see what free stuff they’ll give us,” he said in a rush. “We take it in turns.”

“And that _works_?”

He shrugged. “Yeah, most of the time.”

“Jaskier, that’s completely insane. Why on earth would you even _do_ that?”

“Like I said, free stuff.”

She considered this for a moment. “What sort of stuff?”

“Usually champagne,” said Jaskier, thinking. “And cake, they _love_ to give out cake.”

“Really?”

He recognised that look in her eyes. “Ooh no you don’t,” he said , scrambling to his feet, “no way, I’m not getting you involved in this. Your mum would kill me.”

“But _you’ve_ been doing it!”

“And we won’t be doing it anymore. It's… immoral, or something. Probably. Anyway now we’ve been rumbled it's nowhere near as fun.”

“Surely you knew you’d get caught eventually?”

Jaskier made a non-committal noise. “Eh,” he said, “you’d be surprised what you can get away with. But… yes. No more! This is fate, really. The final nail in the coffin.”

“You’ve _really_ always gotten away with it?”

Jaskier hesitated. No - he ought to tell her the truth. “We _did_. Until… until the one you saw yesterday. It wasn’t just Valdo bloody livestreaming it. Vesemir was there.”

Ciri’s eyes were like saucers. “No!”

“He was there on a date—”

Ciri gasped. “A _what?!”_

“Oh no, no way,” Jaskier said, raising his hands. “You can ask _him_ about his love life, not me. He saw us, and came over, and, _gods_ , it was awful!” He walked over to her bed and dropped down onto the deep blue cover. “We had to just… pretend! Until he left!”

“Why didn’t you just tell him?”

“While we were in the restaurant? While the very lovely waitress was passing us a bottle of free champagne and asking if we wanted to choose something from the dessert menu on the house? No way.”

“Was it _really_ that bad?”

“Was _what_ that bad? Waiting to get told off by Vesemir? I mean, Ciri, you _know_ what he’s like, when he does that big disappointed face…” He did a dramatic shudder, and Ciri giggled. “No thank you.”

Ciri laughed, then sighed, shaking her head. “Not _that_ ,” she said, like it was obvious.

“Then what?”

“Pretending to be engaged to Dad.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes at her. “What sort of question is that?”

She grinned at him, one foot on the floor, gently spinning the chair once more. “Seems reasonable to me.” She crinkled her nose. “I can’t believe you kissed him.”

“Oh _yes_ ,” he teased, crossing his arms. “It was _awful_.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

She gave him a withering look, old beyond her years. “Nothing.” She leant back in the desk chair, rolling her eyes. “You know you’re completely mad, right?”

“Well, _yes_ , obviou—” Jaskier was struck with a sudden thought. “Oh, gods.”

“What?”

“I left Yen and Geralt having an argument on the driveway…”

Jaskier slid across the bed and over to the low, sloped window and looked out. From this angle, he could just about see them, still standing on the drive. Ciri shoved him aside so she could look out too.

“Oh no…” she said, giggling. “I know that face.”

Geralt was looking very subdued, Yen furious.

“I think,” said Jaskier, also trying not to laugh, “that he’s getting the long version of the telling off you just gave me.”

“Well, you _did_ deserve it.”

“I’m just glad I got told off by you and not Yen, frankly.”

They watched as Yen, clearly exasperated, put her head in her hands.

“Although,” he continued, “I don’t think she’s asking if she can come along next time…”

Jaskier pushed open the window, shoved his fingers in his mouth and whistled, Ciri wincing beside him. Yen and Geralt’s heads both snapped up, following the sound. He waved, Ciri quickly following suit. Yen rolled her eyes at them, said something to Geralt that they couldn’t hear, waved back in an exasperated way, then headed down the drive towards her car.

Far below, they heard the front door shut, and the sound of Geralt coming up the stairs. Jaskier, still perched in the window, turned to Ciri.

“Don’t tell him I said that kissing him was awful, alright?”

“Sure.”

~

Geralt made his way up the stairs to Ciri’s room. From their appearance at the window, it seemed like Jaskier had cleared the air with Ciri - but he was left wondering what, exactly, he’d told her.

Yen hadn’t held back with describing to him, in exquisite detail, just how stupid she thought he was. He was inclined to agree - and told her as much - and despite being clearly annoyed with his and Jaskier’s nonsense, she’d easily forgiven him.

“There really is nothing happening between us,” he’d said, the driveway cold and painful beneath his bare feet. “ _Really_.”

She’d been about to respond when they’d been interrupted by one of Jaskier’s famous whistles. Yen took the sudden drop in the conversation as an opportunity to leave, keen to head off to wherever it was she was needed - probably a crucially important meeting, or an appointment with a client.

All things considered, it could have gone worse.

He paused outside Ciri’s door. From inside, he could hear her and Jaskier giggling together. Unpleasantly aware of how much hurt he’d caused her, he knocked gently on the door.

“Ciri? Can I come in?”

There was a sudden hush. “Yeah!”

He pushed open the door to find Ciri on her desk chair and Jaskier sat on the bed, hunched over, looking a little guilty.

“We’re in trouble,” he said, with a cheeky grin.

Geralt sighed. “Tell me about it.”

He slumped onto the bed next to Jaskier, feeling like he was about to get another telling off as Ciri spun on her chair to face them both.

“Ciri, look...”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I’m _really_ sorry: we both are. I didn’t think we’d…”

“Get caught?”

She reminded him of Yen. “Yeah.”

“Well you _did.”_

She glared at them both - but the corner of her lip was twitching.

“You’re mad,” she said, simply, “you’re _both_ mad. Honestly _,_ I kinda get _you_ doing this,” she pointed at Jaskier, who raised his eyebrows, “but _you?”_ She turned on Geralt. “You’re supposed to be the sensible one!”

“You know,” said Geralt, “That’s exactly what your mum said.” He paused. “But with more swearing.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Well I’m glad to know you’ve all got such high opinions of me.”

“It _was_ your idea.”

“Only the first time! And you could have refused to go along with it whenever you liked.”

“Oh, _sure_ , blame me—”

“Guys!” Ciri cut them off before they could begin bickering. “Seriously!”

Geralt fell silent.

“Sorry,” Jaskier muttered.

She peered at them both, fiddling with the fob on the back of her phone.

“So…” She took a long pause, gathering her words. “You’re not engaged?”

“Nope.”

“Are you _dating?”_

“No.” They spoke together, too quickly.

She squinted at them. “Right.”

Geralt glanced at Jaskier, catching his gaze. As soon as he did, Jaskier quickly looked away, the tips of his ears going pink.

“I guess that means I’ll stop looking for bridesmaid’s dresses,” she muttered.

Geralt’s head snapped around. “ _What?”_

“You were looking for… but… _why_?” Jaskier spluttered.

She shrugged. “Who else were you gonna ask?”

“Fair,” said Jaskier. He peered conspiratorially at Geralt, who was still looking lost. “Can I see?”

She gripped her phone tighter. “Why?”

“I’m interested. Come on, wedding planner, let’s have a look.”

Ciri relented, unlocking her phone and scooting over on the wheeled desk chair to get closer.

“Fine,” she said, as Jaskier and Geralt leaned in, “Here…”

~

Geralt stacked the empty pizza boxes beside the back door, ready to toss them into the recycling tomorrow morning. It was only fair, he thought: pizza always made a good apology. Ciri had shuffled off to bed ten minutes ago, quietly content that nothing had changed - although she’d still spent the whole evening teasing them. That, he felt, they probably deserved.

As he tidied, putting plates in the dishwasher and condiments back in the fridge, he thought about her carefully curated list of bridesmaid’s dresses, and what Yen had said to him before she’d stormed out. Ciri wasn’t disappointed in his choice - she wasn’t angry that he was, apparently, seeing Jaskier - she was cross that they’d neglected to tell her. Disappointed in both of them for thinking they _couldn’t_ tell her.

Somehow, despite all that hurt, she’d still spent what was clearly a considerable amount of time looking at bridesmaid’s dresses for a wedding that was never actually going to happen.

It was sweet. But it also added fuel to that little fire in his chest that ignited every time he thought about his housemate. Even _Ciri_ , who often only saw him when he was with Jaskier, thought they were seeing each other. Or at least, she thought them being engaged was so plausible that she’d started to plan around their relationship.

There was that thought again: what if it _was_ real? Would that make Jaskier Ciri’s stepdad? The thought alone was absurd - Jaskier was certainly more of a _fun uncle_ than a _doting father_ , but Ciri clearly thought he was worth her time: and Jaskier loved her like she was his family. Moreso, probably, considering his rather fractious relationship with his _actual_ family.

 _Fuck. No_. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. He shouldn’t be even _entertaining_ the idea of stepdads and marriages and bridesmaid’s dresses. He shut the fridge door slightly harder than he’d intended to, then headed back into the living room.

Jaskier was sprawled across the sofa, taking up the entire width as he fiddled on his phone, his feet twitching to a song that only he could hear.

“Move over,” said Geralt as he approached.

“Make me.”

Jaskier stared at him, lips pursed, _daring_ him. For a moment, Geralt considered doing just that - either sitting on him or, if he felt like it, picking him up and dumping him on the floor. But he did neither, and lowered himself down, leaning against the sofa with his legs stretched out across the crumb-strewn carpet.

“We need to hoover,” he said.

Jaskier didn’t even look up from his phone. “Eh,” he said, “We’ll do it in the morning.”

Geralt considered arguing, but couldn’t be bothered. He also couldn’t be bothered to hoover, now he thought about it. He leant back, resting his nape against the leather of the sofa. His head gently pressed against Jaskier’s leg - but he didn’t move. Neither did Jaskier. Now he’d sat down, the house quiet again, he felt very tired.

He half-heartedly watched the TV, which was still cycling through the old _Simpsons_ DVD that Ciri and Jaskier had chosen, feeling sleepy. He was wiggling against the sofa, getting comfortable, when there was suddenly something fiddling on the top of his head.

Jaskier was playing with his hair. It was a casual, intimate touch - almost instinctual. Neither of them said anything as Jaskier carded his fingers through Geralt’s hair, his fingertips dancing on his scalp. They sat like that for a while in complete silence - Geralt leaning against the sofa, Jaskier’s fingers fooling in his hair.

And then the movement stopped.

“Geralt?”

Geralt turned, just as Jaskier pulled his hand away. “Yeah?”

“Why have I been added to a group chat called _The Wolfpack_?”

 _Oh, Gods_. “Uh—”

“Second question. Why am I being spammed with extremely lewd ‘congratulations’ messages?”

Geralt scrambled to his knees, grabbing his own phone, which was flashing with a dozen missed messages. Jaskier sat up, bringing his legs beneath him as he did, his angry expression illuminated from below.

“Third and final question, Geralt...”

Geralt looked up at him from the floor, the group chat flashing on the screen of his phone.

“Why have they changed my name to _brother-in-law?”_

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you're enjoying the madness. I *had* an ending planned... and then, of course, an alternative ending thrust itself upon me, so... we'll see. 
> 
> If you enjoyed this, you can see more of my weirdness on my tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! No warnings for this chapter, just more of the same: useless pining, lots of swearing, annoying brothers and a hint of spice. Enjoy!

_Ping - ping - ping_.

Notification after notification flashed up on Jaskier’s phone. The groupchat - _The Wolfpack_ \- contained both himself and Geralt, as well as Vesemir and Geralt’s brothers. At least, Jaskier _assumed_ they were Geralt’s brothers: all of them aside from Vesemir had utterly incomprehensible nicknames.

His name, at least - which had just been reset by someone called “What a Prick” - was impossible to misunderstand.

_Brother-in-law_.

So much for Geralt’s promise.

On the floor beside him, Geralt was watching the messages roll in, his phone gripped in his hand.

“What _is_ this, Geralt?”

Geralt was barely listening. “Vesemir said he wouldn’t tell them…”

“And _you_ said you’d tell him the truth, so congratulations! You both fucked up.”

“Jaskier, look—”

“You’ve had a whole day to tell him! Literally at _any_ point you could have just called him and said, I don’t know, _sorry dad but I need to tell you something_. It’s not that difficult!”

“But—”

“No _buts_! Now your whole fucking family thinks we’re _engaged_ , Geralt! Not only do they think we’re getting married, but they’re also now under the impression that we’ve been secretly seeing each other for gods know how many years…”

Geralt fell silent, looking at his own phone. It was hard to read his expression in the low light. More messages arrived, one after the other.

> **_Lil bleater:_ ** _does this mean we need to buy you an iron or s/thing?_
> 
> **_What a prick:_ ** _like either of them can iron_
> 
> **_What a prick:_ ** _it’s fine i got a gift lined up_
> 
> _[ **What a prick** sent an attachment: water_based_lube_bulk.jpg]_
> 
> **_What a prick:_ ** _dunno if that’ll be enough though_
> 
> **_What a prick:_ ** _lmk_
> 
> **_Griff:_ ** _fucking hell_
> 
> **_Griff:_ ** _why did i open that in public_
> 
> **_Griff:_ ** _o congrats btw_
> 
> _**[Griff** sent an attachment: congrats_on_the_sex.gif]_
> 
> **_Vesemir:_ ** _For Melitele’s sake_
> 
> **_Vesemir:_ ** _Sorry Jaskier._

Geralt groaned. Jaskier was finding it hard to feel sympathetic as another message popped up.

> **_What a prick:_ ** _see u on thursday brother-in-law!!_

“What does that mean, _see you on Thursday_?” Said Jaskier, reading with a frown. “What’s happening on Thursday?”

“Oh, _fuck_.” Geralt put his head in his hands. “It’s for work. The museum hosts a party every year for the employees. I usually go alone, but there’s an open invite for partners.”

“And now they’re all expecting me to show up?”

Geralt shrugged. “Looks that way. Probably so they can get more information out of you…” he flopped back against the sofa. “ _Urgh_.”

“Well, that’s not happening, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“This is ridiculous, honestly. They have _met_ us, haven’t they? Surely if we’d been together long enough to get engaged they’d know by now…”

“We could have moved quickly.”

Something about that didn’t sit right with Jaskier. “Hmm…”

“What?”

The thought pricked Jaskier's mind. Geralt’s brother’s reactions felt wrong. Had one of his friends announced an unexpected engagement, he wouldn’t be celebrating and joking. He’d be suspicious, and confused and, more likely: worried. Weddings and engagements and sudden commitment didn’t just _happen_. If Priss messaged him tomorrow morning to tell him she was suddenly getting married to her housemate, he’d assume she was in some sort of dire trouble, even _if_ she was always going on about how nice her housemate’s arse was.

He sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Just…”

“Just _what_?”

“Well, _look_ , all these messages are teasing us, right? But they’re all just… going along with it. No one is even _questioning_ why we’d be just roommates one day and then engaged the next. And for all your brothers like to fuck about, they’re not stupid.” He tapped the back of his phone, thinking. “Have any of them messaged you privately?”

Geralt frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Has anyone messaged you asking what’s going on? Away from the others? Asking, I don’t know, why it’s so sudden? _Seriously_ asking, not just banter.”

“What are you suggesting?”

Jaskier took a moment to gather his thoughts. Ciri was convinced by their act because she saw what was, to her, irrefutable evidence. Yen was convinced because she saw how upset Ciri had been. Vesemir had actually _been_ there, and - well.

Perhaps Jaskier _had_ been too enthusiastic with his kiss. It would have fooled anyone. It fooled _him_ \- he couldn’t get it out of his head.

But Geralt’s brothers, detached from the whole thing, were better poised to see through it. They weren’t as emotionally attached to the situation as Ciri, nor had they watched the whole thing play out like Vesemir had. Of _course_ they saw through it.

“What I’m _suggesting_ …” Jaskier slid from the sofa to sit beside Geralt on the floor. “Is that they might have figured it out. Maybe they _know_ it’s fake, and are calling our bluff. Seeing how far they can push us.”

“How would they even figure it out?”

“Ah, _well_ , about that…”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at him. “What did you do?”

“I _may_ have told Lambert. About the whole… fake proposal thing.” Jaskier spotted the furious look on Geralt’s face. “I never mentioned you!” He added quickly, raising his hands. “It was last summer at Eskel’s birthday, and we were both drunk and chatting about stupid things we’ve done while pissed… and I told him about the first time I did it, after graduation.”

“So he might know.”

“If he remembers… yeah. He might have worked it out and told the others, and now they’re all piling on to see who cracks first. Hence the ah…” he peered at his screen. “The numerous and increasingly profane references to our non-existant sex life.”

“You sound paranoid.”

“I sound _suspicious_ , Geralt. Very different. If Vesemir told you that _Lambert_ was suddenly engaged after being steadfastly single for several years, what would _you_ think? Would you think that he’d managed to hide a long term serious relationship from all of you, or would you think he’d gone and done something stupid?”

Geralt seemed to be considering this.

“Exactly,” Jaskier continued, without waiting for Geralt to respond. “You’d at _least_ ring him or something to see what was going on. I think this is a wind-up.”

“No,” said Geralt, finally. “They wouldn’t…”

“Wouldn’t they? _Really?_ ”

Geralt sighed.

“Look,” Jaskier locked the phone and placed it face-down on the floor between them.. “I won’t reply until you tell me what you want to do. If you’re going to tell Vesemir the truth, or tell them _all_ the truth, or…”

Or what? Or pretend, absurdly, that they were engaged? Pretend that they were in love - pretend that _Geralt_ was, somehow, in love with _him_? Pretend and play along with his brother’s stupid game?

“...or whatever,” He finished, lamely. “This is _your_ problem to fix, not mine. But I’ll go along with what you want to do.”

Geralt remained impassive. He too put his phone down, as if unable to look at it any longer. On the TV, the DVD finally ran itself out. The screen went dark, and they were suddenly plunged into silence.

“So what do you propose we do?” Geralt said, slowly. “If they _are_ fucking with us?”

Jaskier’s fingers twitched in the sleeves of Geralt’s hoodie, the cuffs low over his hands.

“Part of me thinks you need to call Vesemir, _now_ , and clear this all up.” He said, keeping one eye on his phone. “But if they’re onto us, and they’re calling our bluff, then part of me…” he finally let himself look into Geralt’s eyes. “... part of me can’t bear to let them win.”

~

The blinking light of an unread notification was driving Geralt mad. He’d muted his phone while still downstairs with Jaskier, and had switched off the vibration after lying in bed for only ten minutes. Now all that was left was the irritating blue flash that told him he had messages waiting for him, even if he didn’t want to read them.

With a groan, he rolled over in the bed and turned the phone face down.

Neither he nor Jaskier had responded to any of the messages since they’d first started to arrive nearly three hours ago. That hadn’t, he noticed, appeared to deter his brothers, who were _still_ bombarding the family group chat.

He couldn’t let go of what Jaskier had said. Frustratingly, he’d been right: none of them had messaged him privately, none of them had asked how this had happened.

Perhaps they _were_ teasing them, attempting to make them snap. That would be typical: they, of course, would realise that something was amiss and goad Geralt into confessing all. The longer the game went on, the more disappointed Vesemir would be, and the funnier his brothers would find the whole thing.

It had only been last week that over a pint after work Lambert had teased him for being “the favourite”. Geralt had told him that it wasn’t his fault that he was the only well behaved one in the family, and Lambert had snorted in disbelief.

“You’re not well behaved,” he’d said, draining his beer. “You just don’t get caught.”

And now, of course, he had been. It was only a matter of time, he supposed.

The duvet tangled around his legs and he kicked it away, trying to get comfortable. His mind was too busy to sleep, too frantic. He needed to deal with this, or he’d never get any rest.

With a beleaguered sigh, he finally sat up and grabbed at his phone. He was going to put a stop to this - he’d message the group chat, so all of them would see it, spell out _exactly_ what had happened, and then possibly bury his phone in the garden.

The screen dazzled him, making him wince, and he quickly turned down the brightness with a mumbled swear. He skimmed over the notifications - he’d missed a further eleven messages on the chat. _Fuck_. He wouldn’t even read them, he decided quickly: he’d just say what needed to be said and leave it at that.

He was about to open the app when something else caught his eye.

He _did_ have other messages. He opened Eskel’s chat.

> **_Eskel:_ ** _i know youre ignoring us but congrats anyway_
> 
> **_Eskel:_ ** _im best man right? i promise not to get strippers for the stag_
> 
> **_Eskel:_ ** _unless you want strippers_
> 
> **_Eskel:_ ** _set a date yet??_

And then, a full ten minutes later:

> **_Eskel:_ ** _also its about fucking time_

Eskel’s messages read like someone who’d bought into the lie. They read like a man whose brother had just gotten happily engaged.

Geralt had been expecting more teasing, of course, but he’d also been half-expecting a line of questioning. Lambert would be happy to mock him until one of them got drunk enough to have an _actual_ conversation, but Eskel could be a lot more sincere, when he wanted to be.

Which meant, of course, that he was fucking with him. If _Eskel_ \- Eskel who’d been at Geralt’s side since they were kids, who’d stood by him as a furious teenager, who’d stepped up when Ciri had first entered their lives, taking her on as a niece without even being asked - if _he_ wasn’t questioning this sudden, unexpected news then something was wrong.

He glanced at the last message again. _It’s about fucking time_. What was _that_ supposed to mean? Geralt had been carefully guarding his feelings towards Jaskier, keeping them stamped down and hidden away. They’d bloomed unbidden, like a dandelion growing through concrete, and he’d done his best to make sure no one else would ever know about them.

He’d come close to spilling his own secret on more than one occasion, but he’d always kept his mouth shut, swallowed it back down. If anything, he spent more time _complaining_ about Jaskier than anything else - especially to his brothers.

There was no way that Eskel would know how he really felt.

It was a challenge, then. Perhaps he and Lambert were, at this moment, getting smashed in their apartment and figuring out the best way to tease him. He wondered if one of them had messaged Jaskier too, sending him something equally benign, asking about _his_ stag do.

All thoughts of responding were quickly abandoned.

He locked the phone once more and placed it back on the bedside table. After a moment, he grabbed a book from the pile which he had promised himself to read and threw it on top, hiding it.

With a short, stifled groan he fell back onto the pillows and pulled the duvet up around him, closing his eyes.

He didn’t fall asleep for another three hours.

~

The sun had hardly begun to rise when Geralt finally sat up, accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to fall back asleep. A quick glance at his alarm clock told him it wasn’t yet seven. He resisted the urge to work out _exactly_ how much sleep he’d managed to get last night, although he knew it was nowhere near enough.

At least it was early enough that he’d have the house to himself for a few hours while he mulled over what to do about his brothers. Both Jaskier and Ciri could stay in bed till midday, especially on a Sunday.

Without bothering to put on a shirt, he headed onto the landing in just his thin sweatpants. He’d have a coffee - one of the nice ones - something to eat, shower, and _then_ … then he’d decide what he was going to do.

Music was drifting up the stairs. He hesitated. Had they left the TV on last night?

He made his way downstairs, the fog of sleep still prickling at him, to find Jaskier in the kitchen, his music blasting, a sponge in one hand. He was cleaning the hob with an erratic little dance.

He was also, Geralt noticed, fully dressed - which for so early on the weekend was unheard of.

“You’re up early.”

Jaskier quickly looked around, then went back to scrubbing.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, “again. Thought I may as well get up rather than lying about in bed…”

“Right.”

He tossed the sponge onto the countertop, wiping his hands on his jumper.

“Look, Geralt, I’ve been thinking…”

Geralt shuffled into the room. “Me too. I think—”

“I think you should tell your family.”

“—we should do it.”

They spoke over each other. Jaskier’s hands froze, twisted in the thick fabric.

“ _What_?”

“I got a message from Eskel.”

“....and?”

“And I think you’re right. I think they’re fucking with us.”

“What did he say?”

“He said congratulations,” Geralt opened the fridge, grabbing the milk, “and joked about a stag do.”

“Nothing else?”

_It’s about fucking time_. “Nothing else.”

Jaskier frowned, folding his arms as Geralt pushed passed him to reach the kettle.

“Didn’t he ask what was going on? Or long long it had been? _Anything?_ ”

“No. Like I said: _Nothing_.”

“Huh.”

Jaskier watched him as he moved about the kitchen, making coffee and throwing bread into the toaster. Jaskier’s gaze lingered on him in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, though he was sure he’d just zoned out, deep in thought.

“So you’ve decided,” Jaskier said, finally looking away, “that this means they’re messing with us?”

“It seems the most reasonable option. More reasonable than them actually believing we’re together.”

“Hah,” Jaskier turned away, returning to his cleaning. “Sure.”

He gave the side a quick, perfunctory wipe, then threw the sponge down once more with a huff, spinning around.

“You _really_ want to do this, then? You _actually_ want me to go with you on Thursday?”

“Like you said,” Geralt bit into his toast. “I don’t want them to win.”

“It’s just… Geralt, _look_ , I’ve been thinking about it, and it just seems like a _really_ bad idea. It’ll make it harder to get the truth out.”

“Or easier.”

“How so?”

“The longer we lean into it, the more absurd it is. The more obvious it becomes that it was fake. By the time they find out about the proposal it’ll just be part of the joke.”

“And you’re hoping that Vesemir will be less horrifically disappointed in you, by then? When he’s already in on this joke?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Alright then,” Jaskier crossed his arms, putting on his most serious face. “Sell it to me.”

“What?”

“Sell it to me. _You_ want to go ahead with it, and _I_ think it's the single most ridiculous thing you’ve ever suggested. So: sell it to me. Why should I go along with it and not simply tell Vesemir on you like the rat bastard you are?”

“Because I asked you not to?”

“Not good enough, I’m afraid. _I_ asked you to tell him, and you didn’t. A plea towards my generous nature won’t do.”

“If I tell them _now_ , I’ll have to go alone, and they’ll spend the whole evening teasing me.”

“You _deserve_ them teasing you.”

“Fine. It’s a free party.”

“Go on?”

“Free food and an open bar, all night.”

“Alright. What else?”

“It’s _at_ the museum. They open it for the evening.”

Jaskier considered this. “ _How_ open?”

“All of it. They open up the exhibitions too—”

“Including the ones you have to pay for?”

“ _All of it_.”

“Even the dinosaurs?”

“Even the dinosaurs.”

“So I can spend all evening wandering around the biggest museum in the city, at night, looking at all the crap taxidermy and robot dinosaurs, _without_ having to push my way through gaggles of screaming school children and annoying tourists?”

“That’s right.”

Jaskier titled his head to one side, putting Geralt in mind of a thoughtful labrador, one hand pressed to his chin.

“And the open bar is _really_ open, yes? It’s not one of those fake-out token schemes?”

“Open bar. I should know, I’ve had to drag Lambert away from it enough times.” Geralt leant against the kitchen counter, feeling foolish. “Okay,” he said, “ _you’re_ the one who said they were fucking with us. Have you changed your mind?”

Jaskier chewed on his lip. “I… _no_ , I guess.”

“And if they _are_ fucking with us, which we _both_ suspect they are… do you _want_ them to win?”

Jaskier relented, hands on hips. “Fine,” he said. “Fine! I’m in.”

He stuck out a hand with a flourish. As Geralt went to grasp it, he suddenly pulled it, back, pointing a scolding finger at him.

“ _But_ ,” he warned, “This goes against _all_ my better judgement, and I’m only agreeing to go along with it with the guarantee I can rip the _utter piss_ out of you when it goes horribly wrong.”

“Okay.”

“And I want it on the record that I think it’s a _terrible_ idea, alright?”

“Noted.”

“And when this _does_ go wrong, which it will, you can’t blame _me_. Not allowed.”

“But—”

“But nothing! I’ll accept responsibility for the proposing thing but the rest of this is all on you, got it?”

Geralt sighed. “Fine _._ ”

Jaskier put out his hand once more, looking smug. “Marvellous.”

Geralt grabbed his hand and shook it as Jaskier smirked at him. Jaskier’s palm, he noticed, was a little sweaty - but his grin was sure, his expression sly.

“You’ve got yourself a fiancé, Rivia.” He peered at him, pulling his hand back. “Now go and put a godsdamned shirt on.”

~

The kitchen was _sparkling_ , if Jaskier did say so himself. You could eat your meal off of those countertops. This was the benefit of actually getting up early, he supposed. Cleaning the house had been better than lying in bed worrying, and had kept his mind nicely preoccupied.

The decision to call the whole thing off had come to him while he was halfway through sorting the vegetable drawer in the fridge. It had been like a weight off of his shoulders - the confident decision that he was, for once, doing the right thing.

And then Geralt had appeared like some sort of half-asleep god, and announced that he’d decided to continue the facade.

_Fuck_. Jaskier had _tried_ to resist, he really had. But the thought of getting another chance to play at the stupid game, to spend one more night at Geralt’s side, like he was _his_ … he couldn’t say no, no matter how much he tried. He’d been ready to agree even before he’d forced Geralt to argue his case.

Priss would have laughed at him, he knew. _The lady doth protest too much, methinks_. He wasn’t sure who he’d been trying to convince: Geralt, or himself.

He also wasn’t sure who’d convinced whom that this was a good idea. He was the one who’d suspected Geralt’s brothers were teasing them, and it was _his_ fault for implanting that doubt in Geralt’s mind, too. But it was Geralt who wanted to follow through, who wanted to see this game through to it’s no doubt disastrous end.

And the little mischievous voice in Jaskier’s head wanted to see it through too: partly for one more night of pretending and partly because he really _couldn’t_ bear to lose.

He chucked the teatowel he’d used to dry down the sides into the washing machine, and turned to admire his handiwork. Geralt wouldn’t be able to moan at him about not doing any tidying for at _least_ a week.

By the time Geralt came back down, showered and finally dressed, Jaskier was perched on the freshly cleaned countertop sipping on a coffee, waiting for the dishwasher to finish its cycle. He _liked_ sitting up here - it gave him a good view of the kitchen. Geralt would complain, but Geralt wasn’t the one who’d just spent an hour polishing the sides.

Tidying had cleared his mind as well as the messy counters. It had also given him a chance to ruminate on the enormity of what they were about to do - and how vastly unprepared they were for it.

The dishwasher _beeped_ just as Geralt emerged from upstairs, his hair still damp, settling in half-formed curls around his face.

“That’s your turn,” said Jaskier, leaning against the cupboard behind him. “I did everything else.”

Geralt got to the job with far less protesting than Jaskier would have managed, opening the dishwasher in a cloud of hot steam that fogged the chilly windows.

“What does one wear to this sort of do, then?” Jaskier leant on one hand, watching him carefully. “If I need something new you need to tell me now, so I can get it in time. Is it full suit, smart caj? Can I wear odd socks and a hoodie?”

“Suit,” Geralt said, shortly. “The chair is keen on appearances.”

“ _Exciting_. I never get to see you in a suit.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Oh, come on. You look great in a suit, don’t start with all this false modesty.”

“I hate wearing a suit.”

“Well it’s a very good job we _aren’t_ getting married, isn’t it? No one wants to attend a wedding where the groom is dressed in jeans and a Primark t-shirt.”

“It’s not Primark.”

“Oh?”

“It’s M&S.”

“You _fancy_ fuck,” Jaskier teased, sticking out his foot and giving him a poke. “Very smart. You’ll forgive me if I don’t buy my outfit for this thing from M&S, yes? I’ve got something a little less traditional in mind…”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, dear fiancé, that I am going to look _delectable_ , even if you stand next to me in your ill-fitting suit looking grumpy all evening.”

“Hmm.”

“Of course, I _always_ look delectable, so that shouldn’t be too hard.”

Geralt just hummed once more, clearly deciding to ignore Jaskier’s bravado. Now he thought about it, Jaskier _was_ vaguely aware of the party he’d somehow wheedled his way into: he remembered Geralt heading off last year, dressed in a suit, ever-reticent about what he was up to. Jaskier hadn’t really registered much beyond catching a glimpse of Geralt in his suit - _that_ had been a rare treat - and it wasn’t until much later that he’d realised he didn’t actually know where Geralt had been going.

“So.” Jaskier swung his legs back and forth, watching Geralt begin to sort plates. “What’s your plan?”

“Plan?”

“How do you intend to sell this?”

“Do we _need_ to sell it?”

“Honestly, Geralt! It’s like you’ve never pretended to be someone’s fiancé before.”

“And you have?”

Jaskier pursed his lips. “Not _fiancé_ ,” he said, “but I’ve played at being the boyfriend a couple of times. And you need a plan, believe me, or everyone will tell it's fake and it’ll all fall apart before they’ve served dessert, and then they’ll _definitely_ win this game of yours. Unless, of course, you’ve decided to be sensible and are just going to tell them all to fuck off?”

Geralt didn’t say anything.

“I’ll take your stoic silence to mean you’ve decided to stick with the plan, then?” More silence. “Look, when is this thing?”

“Thursday.”

“So we’ve got…” Jaskier quickly counted on his fingers, “Five days. Plenty of time to practice.”

Geralt turned away from the dishwasher, a pyrex dish gripped in his hands.

“Practice what?”

“Being a couple, Geralt! If you want your brothers to _actually_ believe this thing then you’ve got to make it look right. No one will believe it if you’re keeping me at arm’s length all night.”

“I suppose.”

“Well, then. If you _truly_ want to pretend you’re my poor unfortunate betrothed then you’ll need to bloody act like it, don’t you? We’ve got to do, you know, _couples_ things. Especially if you want to wind up your brothers.”

“Like what?”

Geralt bent down with a sigh, pushing Jaskier’s legs aside where they blocked the cupboard the cookware was stored in. Jaskier didn’t resist, letting himself be manhandled as Geralt opened the door and shoved the dish untidily away. He wasn’t getting it.

Perhaps Jaskier would have to _make_ him get it.

“Look,” Jaskier gestured with his head, “Come here.”

Geralt shut the cupboard, standing. “What—”

In a quick, lithe movement Jaskier wrapped his legs around him, still perched on the counter top, tugging him forwards and trapping him against him.

“If you want this to be a _game_ , and you want to _win_ … then you need to actually play, Geralt.”

Geralt went utterly still, his empty hands awkwardly hovering, eyes suddenly wide.

“Like I said,” Jaskier muttered, leaning forwards so his mouth was inches from Geralt’s ear. “Practice.”

~

Geralt froze. Jaskier’s legs were cinched about his waist, his lips fluttering over his ear, his breath hot against his skin. He smelt of coffee and chamomile.

_Practice_.

He needed to respond, but Geralt found the words stuck in his throat, his tongue heavy. Jaskier’s legs were tight around his middle, at the perfect height so their crotches were pressed together. His heart was thundering, stomach flipping.

It hadn’t been that long ago when he’d been down on one knee in the middle of a packed restaurant musing on how Jaskier had made him more impulsive, led him to more ridiculous behaviour. He’d thought then how he’d missed being reckless.

Now, he was beginning to remember why he valued his life being steadfast and easy and, above all: boring.

_Fuck_.

Jaskier was teasing him, he realised: testing him. Gauging to see what he’d do next. Perhaps it was a kind of punishment, karmic retribution for his poor choices.

But, _gods,_ Jaskier was so close. This was nothing like lounging together on the sofa, or even awkwardly sharing a bed. This was _deliberate_.

He could feel his skin growing hot, a flush creeping up his neck. Jaskier smirked and shifted his weight just a fraction, leaning back with a smug expression, increasing the maddening friction where their bodies touched. Surely he didn’t know what he was doing, _surely_ he didn’t know the instinctive, unstoppable reaction Geralt’s body was having to his touch.

Jaskier’s lips were slightly parted, his eyes almost _daring_ , and—

Geralt swiftly stepped back. Jaskier’s legs dropped away immediately, letting him go. _Melitele_ , this would be harder than he’d anticipated.

“Rules,” he stuttered, feeling his face flush.

“What?” Jaskier frowned.

“We need rules. For Thursday. What we’re doing. What we’re _not_ doing.”

“Such as?”

Geralt hesitated. Such as _what_ , exactly? He needed to balance making the act believable with protecting himself - guarding his own feelings. He couldn’t cope with a whole evening of Jaskier being this close, of him teasing and tempting. But he also knew that Jaskier was, unfortunately, correct: if they were to _really_ sell this thing, to _really_ make it believable, they’d need to act like a _real_ couple.

It was _easy_ , at home, leaning against each other on the sofa or dancing around each other in the kitchen. It was easy when they were out, too - if they were bumbling around the supermarket, arguing over which brand of cheddar to buy. It had been harder during their little game - harder with dozens of eyes upon him - but he’d allowed himself to get drawn along with the hand-holding and hugging and, eventually, the two disastrous kisses that Jaskier had convinced him made the whole thing more authentic.

It would be harder still to maintain that authenticity in front of his family - his father, his meddling, teasing brothers. And, worst of all, it would be near impossible to maintain it without getting hurt himself.

“Just… don’t go over the top,” he said, finally.

Jaskier raised a single eyebrow. “Over the top?” He asked, all deliberate innocence.

“No PDA.”

“Right,” he smirked. “What else? Can I hold your hand, or is that too shocking?”

“Hand holding is fine.”

“What about hugging? Will you let me put my arms around you?”

“Sure.”

There was only the slightest pause. “Can I kiss you?”

_Yes._ “No.”

Another pause. “Okay. What about—”

“What are you two doing?”

They both started at the sudden intrusion. Ciri was standing just beyond the doorway, her phone in one hand, watching them curiously. Aware of how close he was still standing to Jaskier, Geralt took another swift step backwards. Neither of them had even noticed she was there.

“Nothing,” Geralt said quickly.

“...Sure.” She drew the sound out, glancing between them. “So…”

Geralt stepped towards her as Jaskier slid from the counter top.

“Well, it’s been lovely chatting,” Jaskier sidled around Geralt and into the hall, Ciri moving out of his way. “But I’ve got an outfit to buy.”

He ducked into the living room, where Geralt knew his wallet was still lying on the armrest of the sofa where he’d left it last night, then grabbed his coat that was still hanging from the bannister, tugging it on as he opened the front door.

“See you later!”

And then, with a blast of chilly air from outside, he was gone.

Geralt turned back to Ciri, who was watching him with a critical gaze.

“...What?”

She raised a single eyebrow. “Nothing.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes - the chapter count has changed, again. Sorry. Also please note that this chapter has bumped the rating up to an M!

Tinny music blasted from Jaskier’s speaker as he twisted around in front of the mirror, observing himself. His room was littered with discarded clothes, the debris of the whirlwind of destruction as he’d tried to pick the perfect outfit. He’d changed his mind dozens of times now, flipping between the one he _preferred_ and the one he thought might be more _suitable_.

He looked at the black suit, the white shirt, buttoned all the way to his neck.

 _Gods_ , what was he doing? No: even for Geralt, he refused to be dull.

He threw the jacket onto the bed amongst the other clothes and pulled off the starched shirt. That too he tossed at the bed, but it slid off another pile, crumpling onto the floor. He ignored it - he could tidy tomorrow, after this was all over. It wasn’t as if anyone other than him would be forced to witness his mess.

Ten minutes later, he was rushing down the stairs, boots thundering as he went. Geralt was already in the hallway, examining himself in the large mirror just beyond the front door with a neat little frown.

He was wearing a suit.

“Ohh,” Jaskier hummed, appreciatively, “Look at _you_.”

Geralt scowled up at him as he descended the stairs.

“I know,” he huffed. “Don’t start. I look ridiculous.”

“I was _going_ to say,” said Jaskier, standing behind him and peering over his shoulder into the mirror, “that you look very handsome.”

Geralt grumbled at him, fiddling with his jacket.

“You do! You look good in a suit.”

“I look like a fucking _clown_.”

Jaskier grinned, leaning against the wall as he watched Geralt fuss over himself.

“Clowns wear bright colours,” he said. “You look more like a mime.”

“ _Thanks_.”

“You’re very welcome. What’re you going to do with your hair?”

Geralt turned to stare at him. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing!” Jaskier raised his hands defensively. “Nothing! It’s lovely! I was just wondering if you were going to do something with it.”

“Like what?”

“Like putting it up? You could do a little thing here…” he reached forwards, and much to his surprise Geralt didn’t resist as he brushed his fingers through his hair, pulling it up to the back of his head in a little twist. “Like this,” he said, “and then it shows off your undercut…” He brushed his free hand over the shaved patch at Geralt’s neck.

Geralt was carefully watching his reflection in the mirror as he fiddled with his hair.

“Look, pass me that tie…”

Jaskier gestured to the hair tie on the shelf below the mirror, abandoned there weeks ago. Geralt passed it to him, and with a swift movement he tied Geralt’s hair into a neat bun, allowing just a few strands to fall loose, framing his face, highlighting the angle of his jaw.

“There.”

He stepped back, observing his work. Geralt _did_ look good - although he held himself awkwardly, shoulders tight, back too-straight. It was a shame that the cost of getting Geralt in a suit was Geralt’s own comfort. However much Jaskier enjoyed the sight of him wearing his fitted black jacket and crisp white shirt, he’d have enjoyed it more had Geralt not been so painfully self-conscious, so deeply uncomfortable.

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome. What would you do without me, hmm?”

Geralt raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, no, don’t answer that if you’re just going to be mean.”

“Hmm.” Geralt turned, _finally_ smiling. Jaskier noted the way his eyes darted up and down his own body, taking in _his_ outfit too. His gaze felt hot on his skin, but Jaskier was sure Geralt was just ensuring his chosen outfit was suitable for the formal event.

“Well?” Jaskier extended his arms, showing off his carefully constructed outfit, aware he was fishing for compliments. “What do you think?”

He’d chosen a two-toned striped golden blazer, beneath which he wore a black satin shirt, unbuttoned as far as he dared, tucked into the skinniest black trousers he could find. On his feet, he wore more gold - a pair of metallic boots, the leather deliberately aged and crackled. It wouldn’t do to be _too_ shiny, after all.

Geralt stepped towards him, and Jaskier felt himself involuntarily holding his breath. He reached out, and for an absurd moment Jaskier thought he was going to kiss him.

Instead, Geralt’s hand made its way to the necklace hanging around Jaskier’s throat, the pendant nestled against his bare chest. Geralt’s fingers brushed against his skin as he plucked the necklace away, peering at it.

“What’s this?”

Jaskier swallowed. “It’s a Triceratops,” he said. “You ought to know that, you know.”

Geralt frowned, the miniature dinosaur held in one hand, the tips of his fingers pressing against Jaskier’s bare skin.

“It’s inaccurate.”

“I should hope so, a full-sized triceratops would be very inconvenient to wear around my neck.”

Geralt was twisting the little ornament around, looking at it from other angles.

“Go on,” Jaskier said, with a sigh. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we need to leave. Tell me how inaccurate it is.”

“The third horn,” Geralt started without further prompting, “is too far back on the head, here. The front feet should have five toes each, not four. The frill is _completely_ wrong.”

“Anything else?” Jaskier watched as Geralt continued to turn the miniature over in his hands, the chain twisting around as he did.

“This might be a Torosaurus, not a Triceratops,” he said. “But that’s more for paleontological debate, not whether or not your jewelry is accurate.”

Geralt finally let the piece go. Jaskier let himself breathe normally again as the slightly warmed metal fell back against his skin.

“Aside from the terribly inaccurate dinosaur,” he said, “will it do? Is it enough? It’s not quite as formal as yours, I know…”

He watched Geralt’s gaze sweep him up and down, feeling rather like he was being appraised.

“You look fine.”

Something deflated within Jaskier’s chest. “Right. _Thanks_.” And then - no. That wouldn’t do. “You _know_ ,” he said, closing the gap between them, “you’re going to have to do better than that later.”

“How so?”

“I’m your _fiancé_ , Geralt. ‘Fine’ won’t cut it, I’m afraid.”

Geralt considered him. Jaskier prepared himself for a huff of dismissal and perhaps an exasperated look.

“You look… good,” Geralt said, slowly, eyebrows knitting together. “You look really good.”

It wasn’t much, but coming from Geralt it was close enough to a declaration. “Well,” Jaskier forced himself not to smile too broadly, nibbling on his lower lip. “Better. Much better.” He took a quick breath, steadying himself. “Should we..?”

“Wait…” Geralt moved around Jaskier to the coat rack, rummaging. He grabbed his winter coat then reached into the pocket, pulling out the ring box. “You might need this.”

He passed the box to Jaskier unceremoniously, but it still felt heavy in his hand.

“Oh!” Jaskier turned it over, almost afraid to open it. “I… I had sort of planned on telling them we were getting it resized or something. In case it was… weird.”

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to.”

“I thought you might not want me to— oh.” They spoke over one another. Jaskier looked at the box once more, fingers tapping on the lid.

“I just thought,” Geralt stepped forwards, their hands brushing, and opened it up to reveal the plain gold band inside, “that it would look odd if you weren’t wearing it, seeing as Vesemir saw us.”

That was a good point. A fair and reasonable point. It wasn’t even a _request_ \- Geralt wouldn’t force him if he thought it was a step too far.

“No,” Jaskier said. “You’re right.” He plucked the ring from the little velvet pillow and slipped it on, splaying his fingers to better see it.

When he looked up, Geralt was still watching him. Jaskier swallowed, then quickly snapped the box shut and placed it on the shelf.

“Right,” he said, self-consciously straightening his lapels. “Shall we?”

The journey to the museum was uneventful, and they took the time sat on the packed tube to lay out the further rules of the night. Hand-holding was fine, as was hugging - “but no cuddling,” Geralt had said, gruffly. Jaskier hadn’t dared ask what entailed as _cuddling_ , and how it differed from _hugging_.

He didn’t bring up kissing. The other day, in the kitchen, Geralt had shot down the idea. He wouldn’t mention it again.

They’d both agreed that Geralt’s brothers notoriously had no line - no invisible boundary that they felt they wouldn’t be able to cross. This meant they were both prepared for the worst: for the sex jokes and the probing and the teasing. It _also_ meant that they were fully agreed to give as good as they got.

“We need a codeword,” Jaskier mused, as the tube screeched to a halt and a gaggle of people got on.

“A codeword?”

“In case it all goes tits up and we need to get out.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… _oh fuck, this has all gone tits up, we need to get out_.”

Geralt laughed. “Not very effective, as codewords go.”

“Something simple, but also something you won’t just _say_.” Jaskier’s fingers drummed against his leg as he thought. “How about… _shall we go and look in the hall of minerals_?”

“The rocks?”

“Exactly. No one _really_ wants to go and look at all the, you know,” he fluttered his fingers, “ _Geology._ Not when there’s _dinosaurs_ to look at. If one of us mentions wanting to go look at the rocks, then that’s a sign that it’s gotten out of hand. Thoughts?”

Geralt appeared to be considering this. “Not a bad idea.” He turned, suddenly, looking worried. “You think it’s going to get out of hand?”

“No!” Jaskier spoke quickly, too quickly. “No, not really, but… it’s good to have a back-up plan, yeah?”

Geralt titled his head, somewhere between a nod and a shrug.

“It’ll be fine, anyway,” said Jaskier, trying his best to sound confident. “What could _possibly_ go wrong, eh?” He smiled at Geralt’s unconvinced expression as the tube began to slow. He slid up, spinning around the pole in the centre of the carriage. “I believe,” he said, “this is our stop.”

The closer they got to the museum, the more anxiety was twisting in Jaskier’s chest. It was a kind of anticipatory squeeze, somewhere between fear and excitement. He reminded himself, not for the first time, that they were all in on the joke. Had this been their first outing as an _actually_ newly engaged couple, then the fear would be more founded.

But it wasn’t. They weren’t engaged, they weren’t together, and it was all a joke, drawn out too long.

That didn’t stop the queasy nervousness that was pooling in his stomach, though.

They made their way up the sweeping stone staircase outside the building, Jaskier chatting nervously and Geralt nodding along. There was a security guard on the door - a person Geralt clearly recognised. They greeted each other as Jaskier stood nervously aside before being shown in.

The museum was, as ever, gorgeous. Jaskier had never been one for architecture, but even _he_ knew that it was a beautiful building. It was a rare treat to see it so empty - perhaps fifty people were milling about, formally dressed, chatting and gossiping in little groups. The famous Diplodocus skeleton took pride of place in the centre of the hall, and Jaskier gazed up at it, in awe.

He’d never quite get used to the idea that this was Geralt’s _job_. It made his own career feel rather boring.

As they headed into the hall, a woman approached them with a tray of tall champagne glasses. Jaskier took one thankfully, relieved to have something to do with his hands.

“Brother!”

They both spun to see Lambert striding towards them, with Eskel and Vesemir a little way behind.

“Hey, Lam—” Geralt began, but was quickly cut off.

“Not _you_ ,” Lambert said, flinging a rough arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. “Good to see you, Jaskier. Been a while.”

“Not _that_ long.”

“Long enough for you two to get engaged, though,” said Eskel, approaching.

“Yes, well.” Jaskier shrugged - a total non-response, he knew.

“Maybe one of them’s found religion,” said Lambert, finally releasing Jaskier with a barking laugh. “Sick of living in sin?”

Jaskier felt himself flush, but didn’t back down. “No amount of religion can atone for what we’ve been getting up to, Lambert.”

“Hah!” Lambert sipped at his own champagne, the glass too dainty in his hand. “Knew you had it in you, Geralt.”

Jaskier looked at Geralt out of the corner of his eye as he drank the fizzing champagne. He, too, was flushing. Perhaps he hadn’t properly anticipated how difficult keeping up with his brothers would be.

“How’s Coën?” He said, changing the subject.

“Fine, fine,” said Vesemir, “I only hope the house is still standing when we get back. He told me to tell you congratulations, by the way.”

Eskel snorted. “What he _actually_ said was—”

“ _Eskel_.”

“Unfortunately unrepeatable amongst polite company.” Eskel’s eyes followed a man passing them - older, with a shock of white hair. He gave their group an appraising look in the same way one might appraise beetles beneath a log. Lambert scowled.

“Friend of yours?” Said Jaskier, feigning innocence.

“One of the chairs,” Geralt muttered. “Can’t say he’s our biggest fan.”

“Understatement of the year,” said Vesemir, as the man headed towards another group. “Apparently people don’t take too kindly to being told they’re out of date.”

“I believe,” said Geralt, raising his eyebrows, “was that I said he was an obsolete icon of an archaic system that favoured the opinions of rich idiots, and that the world was moving on without him,” He sipped at his champagne. “Or words to that effect.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier blinked. He hadn’t been aware that working in a museum of all places was so _tense_ … but hearing the way Geralt had apparently stood up to whoever the man was made him puff with pride, a little. Geralt was in his element, here: despite his clear concerns about his family, this was _his_ world.

“So,” Jaskier twirled his glass in his hands, “what now? Is there time to explore a little before all the formalities start?”

“We’ve got about an hour,” said Vesemir, glancing at his watch. “And then there’s the meal—”

“And the _speeches_ and the _talking_ and the _blah blah blah_ ,” Lambert cut him off, rolling his eyes. “Go have fun while you can. Maybe if you’re good Geralt will show you his bones…”

“I shall have to be on my best behaviour, then,” Jaskier smirked. “Shan’t go around slandering and shouting at chairs of the museum or _anything_.” He punctuated this remark with a nudge to Geralt’s side, bumping their shoulders together. “Promise.”

Lambert and Eskel both laughed at him, and he was quietly confident in their ruse. It was so _easy_ to go along with their banter that he could easily forget that this was supposed to be a game, something he was trying to _win_. It didn’t feel like a game: it felt like a happy reunion.

“Shall we go and look at the mammals?” Suggested Geralt, clearly keen to remove himself from further talk of his bones. “There’s some specimens in there I think you’ll like...”

“ _Ohh_ , is there anything I can touch?” Jaskier was remembering the old stuffed lion at Oxenfurt, the one they’d kept out for children - and over-enthusiastic thirty year olds - to pet.

“I can think of something you can touch…” muttered Eskel, loud enough for them all to hear.

“Hah,” Jaskier forced a laugh, trying to shake the thought that if he blushed every time the topic of he and Grealt fucking was brought up he was going to give the game away. “Believe me, that’s certainly worthy of being put on display.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Geralt placed his hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, guiding him away, and Jaskier’s stomach flipped at the touch. “Let’s go. We’ll be seeing you all _later_.”

Lambert hollered something after them as they left - something utterly obscene, no doubt - but Jaskier was too busy focusing on the pressure of Geralt’s hand on his back to even hear.

~

“Hey. Hey, Geralt.”

Geralt did not turn around, but continued to walk down the long hall full of taxidermied animals, glancing at the carefully selected specimens collected from around the world.

“Geralt!”

He finally stopped. “What?”

Jaskier was smirking at him. He pointed to the cabinet beside him and the rather unfortunately taxidermied lemur within it.

He giggled.

“That’s you, that is.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and came back to Jaskier’s side, peering into the cabinet.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

Without saying anything, he hooked his hand around Jaskier’s elbow and led him a little further down the hall, towards another exhibition. He pointed, matter-of-factly, at the creature within. The little sign beneath it declared it a _Large Treeshew_. Its long snout, full of teeth, was open in a perfect grimace.

“And that’s you,” he said, before dropping Jaskier’s arm and walking away.

He heard Jaskier spluttering indignantly as he rushed to catch up with him. As they turned into the next hall together, Jaskier threaded his hand around Geralt’s arm. The touch was not altogether unwelcome, and he easily fell into step beside Jaskier’s slower pace.

It was odd, being able to explore the museum at their own speed, without the crush of other people. Most of the guests at the party had worked there so long that the taxidermy exhibition no longer held any real interest for them - the specimens themselves were so old and had been there, unchanged, for so long, that there was nothing new to see.

But Jaskier, who very rarely visited the museum and almost always during peak hours, loved it. He clearly had a penchant for poorly-stuffed taxidermy, and he was jumping from cabinet to cabinet, giggling and pointing out the worst offenders.

It was… nice. Geralt was used to these things being rather dull affairs, and even though his brothers could always lighten the mood they’d inevitably drift back into talk of work and exhibitions and the countless jobs they had left to finish before the end of the quarter. Jaskier was here for one reason only: to have fun. And, apparently, to annoy Geralt’s brothers.

He made a good companion. It was pleasant having him by Geralt’s side.

“Oh!”

Jaskier suddenly stopped, and Geralt found himself being twisted around where their arms were still linked. Jaskier was peering at one of their prized displays - the one with the dodo.

“Gosh,” Jaskier said, bending to get closer, “It’s so strange.”

Geralt looked at the bird, then back to Jaskier. “The cassowaries are stranger,” he said.

“What?” Jaskier turned away, “No! I mean, to _see it_ like this. An _actual_ dodo. Seeing penguins and polar bears and those odd little lemurs is fine, but it’s less impressive when you see them on _Planet Earth_ every other season, isn’t it? Like, I could go and _see_ an emperor penguin in real life if I was really dedicated to it.”

“...What do you mean by ‘actual dodo’?”

“As in, Geralt, it’s an _actual_ dodo! Isn’t that marvellous!”

“Jaskier…”

“Oh, no.” He looked at him properly now. “That’s your teaching voice. What is it?”

“That’s not a real dodo.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“That’s a model. It’s an _old_ model, sure, but it’s still a model.”

“Are the _feathers_ real?”

“They’re real feathers…”

“But not dodo feathers?”

“Very much not.”

Jaskier scowled at the dodo model behind its thick glass. “Bullshit,” he muttered. “So what about the others? There’s one in Oxenfurt…”

“Also a model.”

“What?”

“There’s no taxidermy dodos _anywhere_ , Jaskier. In the _world_.”

“But… but they only went extinct a few hundred years ago!”

“They did.”

“I can’t believe you’ve betrayed me like this.”

“There’s some soft tissue in the Oxenfurt branch, if you’re interested,” Geralt said, once more looping his arm around Jaskier’s and moving him away from the offending bird. “A few bones, and a head.”

“But not a whole bird?”

“Not a whole bird.”

“Well that’s _shit_ , isn’t it?”

Geralt was inclined to agree. It was an damning indictment of human nature - to drive an entire species to extinction then not even preserve a single specimen for the future. It was fuelled by selfishness and greed and the unending belief that humans, somehow, were more important than that millions of animals that outnumbered them.

But he didn’t say any of that. This was supposed to be _fun_ , and Jaskier didn’t need to hear his protelising. He edged closer, leaning into Jaskier’s side.

“Do you want to know where the feathers come from?” He whispered into his ear, conspiratorially.

“Do tell.”

“Its swan feathers. At least, _partially_ swan feathers.”

“Well, that’s not _that…_ ” Jaskier trailed off, thinking. “Hold on,” he said, “hold on. Aren’t swans, you know, protected by the King or some nonsense? That’s why you won’t let me kick that bastard in the park who keeps hissing at me.”

“They are.”

“So did they just hang around until a swan _happened_ to die and then they smuggled it away to steal its feathers?”

“Not quite. It wasn’t dead when they smuggled it away.”

Jaskier’s mouth hung open. “They _killed_ a swan?”

“Word has it that it was a cygnet.”

“How unconscionably cruel!”

Geralt shrugged. “And all just to trick people like you into thinking it was a real dodo.”

“People like— what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“People who can’t be bothered to read the signs. It says very clearly that it’s a model.”

Jaskier gave him a little shove. “Why ever would I need to read the signs when I’ve got _you_ here, hmm? Come,” he gave Geralt’s arm a little squeeze as they continued down the hall. “Let’s see what else we can find, before you ruin the whole museum by uncovering even more of their lies. Next thing you’ll be telling me is that the giant diplodocus out in the hall isn’t even a real skeleton!”

Their footsteps echoed down the empty corridor; Geralt’s well-polished dress shoes clicking and Jaskier’s boots thudding.

“Ah, well,” Geralt started. “About that…”

Jaskier had barely finished complaining about the apparent pack of lies the museum had been feeding him - _since I was a boy, Geralt!_ \- by the time they made their way to the hall where the evening’s meal was due to be served.

Dinner at these parties was _never_ a subdued affair, and this time was no different. They were seated in the North Hall, round tables squashed together with fine linen and more forks than Geralt thought was strictly speaking necessary.

“It’s a little… much,” he said to Jaskier as they stood just beyond the hall as they waited to be seated. “And it’s _very_ formal. So…”

“So behave?”

“I was just warning you.”

Jaskier grinned, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “ _Honestly_. You know my family. Pretending to get along with a bunch of old, white posh men? Don’t you worry about me.”

Thankfully, they were seated with Geralt’s family, Jaskier nicely filling the sixth seat that was often occupied by either someone they didn’t know or one of the chairs attempting to ingratiate themselves into the group. It meant that there was less formal shuffling, less polite small-talk, less cutting themselves back to not offend someone with the power to get one of them - or all of them - fired.

It wasn’t unusual for Jaskier to spend time with Geralt’s family - especially after he’d moved in, he’d become a regular addition to many of their gatherings. But somehow this was different, all of them dressed in their formal wear, on what was _apparently_ their best behaviour. And now, of course, everyone thought they were engaged, which meant the conversation was drifting more towards family and history and, much to Geralt’s distress, the _details_ of the wedding that was never going to happen.

Jaskier was taking it all in his stride, as he ever did, and appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself. He’d rather tactfully steered the conversation away from stag dos and towards receptions and catering and entertainment. It was clear that budgets didn’t appear to factor into Jaskier’s increasingly wild suggestions - at once point, he was exuberantly detailing to Eskel the details of having a temporary ice-skating rink installed.

The worst of it was that everyone was just _going along_ with it - even egging him on. For every wild idea of Jaskier’s, either Lambert or Eskel managed to one-up it with an even crazier suggestion. Even Vesemir was getting in on the fun, although his idea of a full band rather than a DJ was a little tamer than Lambert’s insistence on personalised cocktails for each of the guests.

When Geralt mentioned, with a raised eyebrow, the little problem of _budgets_ , both of his brothers and Jaskier had turned to look at him like he’d suggested something obscene, and he’d been told he was no fun at all.

This, he had to suppose, was more of his brother’s little game: to encourage Jaskier’s enthusiasm to see how far they could push him. When it came to planning parties, it was clear that there was no feat too high or suggestion too ridiculous for him, but Geralt, they all knew, was a little more subdued.

As far as they were concerned, Geralt was sure, they were all planning an imaginary wedding together, where things like _money_ didn’t play into it: only the question of exactly how many temporary ice-skating rinks one could fit into the gardens of a local stately home.

Thankfully their conversation was cut short by the arrival of the food, and Geralt was glad that he’d be granted at least _some_ respite from the topic of weddings. The meal was fine, as ever: but after so many of these parties Geralt had ceased to be impressed by whatever they chose to serve. He wasn’t sure if he’d _ever_ found it impressive, really, not even when he’d first taken up the position in the museum, but at least it wasn’t downright awful.

After the meal came the speeches, and even Jaskier’s excitement was beginning to wane. This was worse for him, Geralt suspected: he had no idea who any of these people were, or what they were talking about. Utterly bored, he peered at Jaskier, who was gazing unfocused at something on the other side of the room, apparently lost in thought.

The room had been lit for a celebration, with blue and pink underlighting illuminating the impressive architecture from beneath. But the effect wasn’t just on the architecture - it picked out the shape of Jaskier’s jaw, his face half in shadow, the curve of his brow. Even in this light Geralt could see the long sweep of Jaskier’s lashes as he blinked. He sipped at his wine, and Geralt found himself transfixed by the movement of his throat, the length of his neck leading to his catastrophically unbuttoned shirt.

He felt, for a second, absurdly lucky - and then the truth caught up with him. Jaskier wasn’t _his_. He needed to remember that.

As if suddenly pulled from whatever daydream he was occupying, Jaskier blinked and suddenly turned, returning Geralt’s gaze. Geralt quickly looked away, but it was already too late: it was clear he’d been staring.

Jaskier didn’t say anything - he couldn’t, clearly, as the speaker on the podium was still droning on - but there was a gentle pressure against Geralt’s leg. Jaskier’s foot pressed against his own, their knees knocking together. He moved, just a fraction - not _stroking_ at Geralt’s leg with his own, but a sort of warm reassurance. It was a friendly touch, nothing more, but it still sent little shockwaves down Geralt’s spine, making his core flip. He grabbed for his own wine and smiled - just once - before Jaskier looked away one more.

When the speeches were finally over, and the room set to be cleared, they stood, following the crowd of people through into the adjoining hall. Vesemir was immediately distracted by another manager, pulling him aside to talk shop, no doubt, while Eskel and Lambert made their way to the back of the room to see if they could wheedle one of the spare bottles of wine from the nice waitress who’d been serving them.

As they filed from the hall, there was a sudden shout from behind.

“Geralt!”

They turned - a young woman with a wavy, asymmetrical bob was fast approaching, pushing her way through the other people. She was wearing a dark red suit and an enormous, crooked smile.

“Hey, Renfri.”

Renfri totally ignored Geralt, moving instead to Jaskier, sticking out her hand.

“So you’re Jaskier, then?”

Jaskier shook her hand. “Apparently.”

She grinned. “Do you know how long it took me to work out that _the housemate_ Geralt talks about with us is also the _Jaskier_ he talks about with his brothers? Months! And _now_ I hear you’re actually _fiancé?_ ”

“Ah, well…”

Geralt frowned. “Where did you hear that?”

She shrugged with a conspiratorial wink. “Just _around_ , Geralt. Anyway, I had no idea you were engaged!”

“It's a recent development.”

“So it seems. _Anyway_ ,” she looked back to Jaskier. “I’m Renfri. Your fiancé here got me out of a tight spot a couple years ago with an arsehole curator up at the Blaviken branch.”

Geralt groaned. “That guy was a prick.”

“Understated as usual,” she laughed. “Total cunt,” she said, flashing her teeth. “But Geralt pulled some strings and got me transferred. _And_ he got him fired.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Baseless rumours,” said Geralt, dismissively.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“So the fact that he was let go right _after_ you did your stint up in Blaviken was just, what, coincidence? And the fact that you’ve been friends with Caldemeyn for _years_ , that was nothing to do with it either?”

“Caldemeyn?” Jaskier asked, peering between them.

“Director of the Blaviken branch,” said Renfri, quickly. “Nice enough, you know, but needs a bit of a nudge.”

“And you’re suggesting _I_ nudged him?” Said Geralt.

Another tight, cheeky smile. “Did you not?”

Geralt forced his face to remain impassive, although the corner of his lip was twitching. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm, _sure_.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Anyway, best thing that could have happened to me, getting moved here. Way more specimens than up in Blaviken.”

“What’s your area?” Jaskier asked. “More dinosaurs?”

“Hah!” She snorted, waving a dismissive hand. “ _Gods_ no, I’m in birds, specifically evolution and morphology. I wrote my thesis on avian tool use.”

“Ooh,” Jaskier grinned, “I was so worried you were going to say you’re a geologist, I cannot _stand_ to listen to stories about rocks.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, “The worst part of the whole industry.”

“So this branch is better for… birds? More to… I don’t know, poke at?”

“Oh, gods yes,” she said, animatedly, “ _Thousands_. But it’s such a shame, could have been so many more… have you been to the branch in Cidaris?”

“Oh, _yes,_ ” Jaskier breathed, “They used to take me there when I was a kid. The taxidermy gave me nightmares for _weeks_.”

“They used to have _hundreds_ of these perfect bird specimens, right? Back when it was just the collection of a rich eccentric rather than an _actual_ museum. Amazing samples, I’d kill someone to take a look at them…”

“Used to?”

“Well, that’s the thing. This old eccentric, he got blackmailed out of them. _All_ of them. By his fucking _mistress_.”

“What?”

“Yeah! He was _mad_ , really, and he couldn’t cope with having the collection split, so when she started demanding money, he just—”

As Renfri began to detail the exact scandals of the former museum patron’s life, Jaskier nodding along enthusiastically, Geralt backed away. Leaving them alone, he suspected, may eventually prove to be a mistake - both of them were more than capable of running into some sort of mischief on their own, let _alone_ together - but it lit a kind of warmth inside him to see Jaskier be so readily and easily accepted by a friend: and him accept her, too.

Perhaps he’d go and grab Jaskier a beer while he was preoccupied, or see if he could work out what times the exhibition he wanted to show him was open. He was considering this, when there was suddenly an arm around his shoulder.

“We were gonna go see if we could set the animatronics off,” said Eskel, smoothly. “If you two are interested?”

Geralt considered this. Jaskier _had_ been going on about the dinosaurs all evening, and it meant he could finally show him his work.

“Sure,” he said, “Why not?”

“Well,” Eskel gestured with the beer gripped in his hand towards Jaskier, still chatting to Renfri. “I know how it is. Tell me, Geralt, does it count as the honeymoon phase if you’ve not gotten married yet?”

“Piss off,” Geralt shrugged his arm away.

“Touched a nerve?” Eskel guffawed. “You can play at being stone-faced all you like, Geralt, but I saw how you were looking at him during those fucking speeches. _I’d_ get distracted as well. He’s better looking than the chair of the board.”

Geralt scowled, and was about to launch into a quick, virulent denial - then realised where he was. Eskel clearly caught his expression, and laughed again.

“Never change,” he said, clapping him on the back.

Before Geralt could respond, Lambert joined them, jostling into Geralt’s other side.

“You were right, you know,” he addressed Eskel over Geralt, totally ignoring him. “He _can’t_ keep his eyes off of him.”

“Not you too.”

“Just pointing out the obvious.”

Geralt groaned. He remembered Jaskier’s urge to lean in - his _own_ decision to play his brother’s game - but when it actually came to it it was suddenly impossible without Jaskier by his side, egging him on, or better: speaking for him.

What _should_ he say? _Of course I can’t, he’s gorgeous. Of course I’m always looking at him. He’s perfect and safe. I can’t stop looking at him because I want him in every way it’s possible to want someone. I can’t stop, because—_

It was all too real. Any way he could twist his brother’s teasing just became too truthful, or so close to the truth that it made him feel stupid and stuttering.

“Tell me, Lambert,” he turned, arms folded. “How’s Aiden?”

Eksel snorted as Lambert spluttered.

“Who’s Aiden?”

Jaskier had appeared beside them, eyes wide and bright, clearly hooked in by new and sudden gossip.

“Yeah, Lambert,” said Eskel. “Who’s Aiden?”

“You can all fuck off.”

“ _Charming_ ,” drawled Jaskier. “Lucky guy, whoever he is. So,” he glanced between them. “Where to? After those speeches I need something interesting to look at.”

“Dinosaurs?”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up. “Oh, _yes_.”

**~**

Jaskier stood leaning on the railing beside the life-size T-Rex, waiting.

“Nothing’s happening!” He shouted, voice echoing around the empty room.

From somewhere below, there was a muffled swear, followed by what sounded like a brief argument before Geralt and Eskel appeared, pushing their way from behind the thick black curtain that shielded the dinosaur off from the reset of the exhibit.

“Going well, then?” Said Jaskier, leaning back, hanging from the railing.

“You could say that,” Eskel said, standing beside him.

“We were told in no uncertain terms to _fuck off_ ,” added Geralt, coming around to his other side.

“You know we don’t _need_ to turn it on,” Jaskier laughed, “it’s very impressive as-is.”

Geralt made a dismissive huffing noise.

“What?” Jaskier turned, “you don’t agree? I remember when this thing was installed…”

“Yeah,” Geralt said, “twenty years ago. It’s—”

He was cut off as the speakers crackled into life with a very realistic _roaring_ sound, and the giant dinosaur began to shudder, it’s huge head twisting as if to face them. Jaskier, taken entirely by surprise, jumped, suddenly clinging to Geralt’s sleeve. Geralt wrapped an arm around him.

“It won’t eat you, you know,” he muttered.

Jaskier huffed, feeling his heart stuttering in a way that was partly through the shock and partly through Geralt’s sudden proximity.

“Yes,” he said, feeling foolish, “ _well_. Took me by surprise, is all.”

Geralt gave him a quick squeeze before removing his arm, just as Lambert appeared with a triumphant yell.

“Got the bastard!” He said, joining them up on the walkway. “What did I miss?”

“Jaskier shat himself,” Eskel called, “and Geralt was about to give us another lecture about the robot. You’re just in time.”

“Aw fuck, not again,” muttered Lambert, “What’ve you got against her, Geralt?”

“For _one_ ,” Geralt began, in a tone that made all three of them back away, “you have no evidence at all that it’s a _she_. They’re a _they_ , if anything.”

“Oh, gods…” Lambert muttered. Geralt ignored him.

“We have no idea if Tyrannosaurus rex had sexual dimorphism, and even if they _did_ , the evidence is so patchy that it would be impossible to recreate it effectively enough for a layman to tell the difference.”

“Who’re you calling a—”

Geralt talked over him. “The sounds are almost _certainly_ imagined - inspired more by movies than genuine research. Other Tyrannosaur species have been found with fossilised feathers, so it is _extremely_ likely that our example here should _also_ have feathers, on the head and tail.” Jaskier watched, fascinated, as Geralt continued. His brothers had clearly heard this rant before. “The legs are likely too bent, as the most _recent_ evidence suggests they stood up fair straighter than this.” He paused. “They were likely slimmer, too.”

There was a silence.

“Are you about _done_ , doctor dinosaur?” Said Lambert.

“I’m done.”

“Good,” he huffed, “because I didn’t spend ten minutes rummaging about in the dark just for _you_ to shit all over it.”

“I like it,” said Jaskier, generously. “Even if it isn’t quite right. Gets the tourists in, at least?”

Geralt gave him a look that very plainly expressed how little he cared for tourists, and Jaskier laughed.

“You _are_ a grump,” he said. “All over a robot dinosaur, too.”

“Hmm.”

All four of them watched for a while as the animatronic roared and thrashed and did all the usual things a giant T-Rex was wont to do. Geralt was clearly unimpressed - but Jaskier was just pleased to get to see it without having to push children out of his way.

“This is thrilling,” said Geralt, finally, “but…”

“Fine,” sighed Jaskier, “where to next?”

“Actually,” Geralt tugged at Jaskier’s arm, pulling him away from the railing. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Now this _was_ intriguing. Jaskier let himself be led away, as from behind Lambert yelled at them - “Yeah he does!”

Jaskier ignored him, more interested in whatever it was Geralt was so keen to show him. His mind lit up for a moment with lurid imaginings - no doubt spurred on by the way Geralt’s hand was still clinging to his arm - which were quickly snuffed out when Geralt stopped, right at the back of the room, next to a low, wide glass case.

“Here she is.”

Jaskier peered in. The case was set aside a little from the garish, bold displays of the main exhibition, all the screens and cartoonish dinosaurs, raised on a simple wooden platform with a small plaque screwed to the side. Beneath the glass was a near-perfect skeleton - or a fossil, perhaps. Jaskier was unfamiliar with the terminology.

It was only small, probably no bigger than two metres long from the tip of its snout to the end of its tail, curved slightly around to better fit in the display. The elongated skull was full of tiny, pointy teeth, leading to a long neck and wide rib cage. The dinosaur - whatever it once was - had flippers.

“Wait,” Jaskier muttered, “I know this. It’s a… a Plesiosaur? Right?”

“It’s a kind of Plesiosaur. Leptocleidus, if you want to be specific.”

“I am not even going to _try_ to pronounce that.”

Geralt grinned. “She’s mine.”

It took Jaskier’s mind a moment to catch up. “She’s…” he looked from the display to Geralt. “She’s _yours_? How so?”

“I put her together. The specimen was left in some cupboard in the warehouse for _years_ , till I found her. Turns out they had one of the most complete Leptocleidus fossils in the world, but no one had bothered to properly put her together.”

“How did you work it out?”

Geralt shrugged. “You don’t need all the details. There was a _lot_ of DNA testing, guesswork, rifling through hundreds of fucking specimens… and here she is. Or, _most_ of her.”

“Only most?”

“The white parts, here…” Said Geralt, pointing, “are the bones we couldn't locate. These are just resin casts, either made using guesswork or based on other partial skeletons. When I first started work on her, I intended to make her composite…” Jaskier looked at him blankly. “Make a full skeleton from lots of pieces of different animals,” Geralt explained, as Jaskier nodded along. “When I realised how complete she was, I decided to go with casts instead. I had a _lot_ of arguments about those casts.”

“Why?”

“The other curator wanted them to blend in more. I said it was important to differentiate between the _real_ bones and the fake ones. People need to know what they’re looking at, like you and that dodo…”

Jaskier snorted in agreement, and Geralt continued.

“It’s important that people can see what’s fact and what’s just… the best guess. Everyone’s disappointed to learn that what they _think_ is a genuine dinosaur skeleton is nothing more than a well-painted plaster cast. It’s best to know what you’re getting from the start.”

“No more fraudulent dinosaurs?”

He allowed himself a smile. “No more fraudulent dinosaurs. This way, people can see what’s real, and what’s…” there was the smallest hesitation in his speech. “...what’s fake.”

Jaskier glanced back at the specimen, squatting to be on eye-level with the skull.

“That, and by using only _her_ bones, and the casts, she’s officially registered as the holotype for _Leptocleidus superstes_.”

“The holotype?”

“A benchmark for the species, until someone finds a better specimen.”

Jaskier couldn’t draw his eyes away from the dinosaur beneath the glass. _Geralt’s_ dinosaur. He could imagine him spending weeks - _years_ \- picking through old fossils and bones in that meticulous, cautious way he did until he’d put her together like a puzzle, one piece at a time. She was wonderful, of course, but more wonderful still was the way Geralt spoke about her. His eyes lit up, he gestured with his hands. He was so _passionate_ about her - this tiny, nearly-forgotten dinosaur that was barely longer than he was tall.

“She’s incredible, Geralt.”

“She is. I’ve spent years putting her together, and petitioning for the museum to include her in the exhibit.”

“Why wouldn’t they want to include her?”

“Too small,” Geralt shrugged, “Too partial.”

“But you said this is the most complete one of its kind? And, that benchmark thingy?”

“It _is_. And you can see even then how much of it is still missing. Says a lot about how rare these specimens are.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Like I said: _Leptocleidus superstes_. You’d know that if you read the sign.” He gave Jaskier a half-smile, lip quirking.

Jaskier batted at him. “You _know_ what I mean, Geralt. An _actual_ name”

“Roach.”

“You named her _Roach_? Like the bug?”

“Like the _fish_. She was found in an estuary bed.”

“Hah. Very good.” He finally stood up, allowing his shoulder to bump, gently, against Geralt’s. They both gazed down at the dinosaur for a moment, and then Jaskier was struck with a sudden thought,

“Hold on,” he frowned. “You were having a right grump at the others for calling the big T-Rex in the other room ‘she’. How can you tell for this one?”

“She was pregnant.”

“Oh…”

It felt, somehow, sad. Jaskier peered again at the tiny dinosaur, the fins, the arch of its back, the rows of teeth. It was odd to imagine that once it was a true, _living_ thing.

“You’re not getting mopey about a dinosaur that’s been dead for millions of years, are you?” Geralt teased, nudging him with his elbow.

“A _baby_ dinosaur.”

Geralt huffed through his nostrils - the closest Jaskier was going to get to a laugh.

“She’s probably not one of the more interesting things in the museum,” Geralt said, almost apologetically.

“No! No, she’s wonderful.”

“I distinctly remember you telling me that fossils were, what was it? _Rocks with jobs_.”

“And I stand by that statement. But this is different, isn’t it? This is _your_ fossil. Figuratively speaking.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning…” Jaskier turned back to look at Roach, his fingers lightly resting on the glass like it might suddenly shatter. “Meaning that it’s nice seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“You’re all, you know… passionate and excited and lit up. Not to say you’re boring otherwise!” Jaskier quickly added, “But you care about this stuff _so much_. It’s… nice.” He wiggled his shoulders in a so-so way. “I enjoy hearing you talk about your dinosaurs and your fossils and your beloved Roach. It’s sweet.”

Geralt turned away. This corner of the room had that same rather dramatic low lighting as the rest of the dinosaur exhibit, and Geralt’s face was half-obscured, but he looked, for a moment, like he might be blushing.

Jaskier swallowed. It was not altogether unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant _at all_. It was so bloody typical that hearing Geralt chat about dinosaur bones just made him _more_ attractive. A pretty face and a nice body were all very well and good, but passion and knowledge and that thirst to share it? That was rare, and it was electric.

He hoped Geralt didn’t assume he was teasing him, or making fun of his work. He _wasn’t_ , of course, he meant everything he’d said - but Geralt was walking away from him, head down.

He quickly caught up with him, resisting the urge to link their hands together.

“I mean it, Geralt, before you start getting grumpy with me.”

“Mean what?”

“It _is_ nice, watching you work, seeing how excited you are about all this. I’m not teasing you.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

 _Oh_. He’d clearly misread Geralt’s body language.

“Well. Good, then. I’ve been thoroughly enjoying listening to you talk about bones. I could listen to you talk about bones all day.” Jaskier realised what he’d just said, and felt _himself_ blushing, too. He coughed. “As it were,” he added, foolishly.

Geralt didn’t respond. _Shit_. Jaskier had fucked it, again. _Way to go_ , he thought. _You’ve just taken the thing he’s passionate about and turned it into a fucking dick joke_. He was about to backtrack, his lips already forming around another hasty joke, when Geralt reached out a cautious, searching arm until the backs of their hands were brushing.

Jaskier’s mouth snapped shut. Earlier, in the Hall of Awful Taxidermy, he’d taken Geralt’s arm like the lead in a historical romance where people simpered at each other over tea. But this was different. This sent a hot little rush from the place where their hands met, up his arm, into his chest.

When they’d played out a proposal in the restaurant, long enough ago now that it felt almost like a dream, they’d hugged - they’d _kissed_ \- but nothing quite so intimate as this.

Matching Geralt’s cautiousness, he slowly twined their fingers together. Geralt didn’t pull away.

Jaskier realised, absurdly, that they were facing different directions, as if both too frozen with fear to face what they were doing - the soft, free touch. No matter.

“So,” he said, his hand squeezing around Geralt’s. “Where to now?”

 _Where to now_ appeared to be, briefly, everywhere. There was an exhibition that Geralt wanted to show Jaskier - one that you usually had to pay for - but visitors were being let in in tiny groups at certain times, so they had a good hour and a half to kill before they needed to make their way to the entrance. As they left the dinosaur exhibits, they were once more met by Geralt’s brothers - _Did he show you his bones, Jaskier?_ \- and then all four of them headed up the enormous escalator to look around the exhibits upstairs.

As they trundled up the escalator, Jaskier was forced to let go of Geralt’s hand, and instead chose to lean against him, Geralt standing on the step above and Jaskier on the one below.

“Look at this,” Lambert teased, gesturing at them. “The hand-holding is sickening enough, but _this?_ This is indecent.”

“I don’t know _what_ you could mean, Berty,” said Jaskier.

That elicited a laugh from both Geralt and Eskel, and a huff from Lambert.

“All this _cuddling_. You’ve made Geralt go soft.”

Jaskier grinned, and he could feel Geralt tense ever so slightly behind him as he realised what he was about to do. “I can _guarantee_ ,” he said, slowly, “that nothing I do makes Geralt go so—”

“Alright, alright!” Lambert threw up his hands, cutting him off. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Jaskier counted that as a _definite_ win as they marched from the escalator and into the first room. As they traipsed around the exhibitions - something that was more for Jaskier’s benefit than Geralt’s or his brothers, he suspected - Jaskier was reminded of being young again, of when there’d be a moment's respite for this sort of familial fun. They all teased each other endlessly, of course: but they teased _everything_ , even the out of date photography used in the rooms that hadn’t been updated since the 90s.

While they moved between the rooms at a slow pace, each of them distracted by different things, his hand kept finding its way to Geralt’s. Geralt would be stood next to him, pointing out something horribly fascinating about one of the little iridescent beetles in the cabinet in front of them, and their hands would be drawn together, linking almost unconsciously. If Geralt minded, or didn’t welcome the casual touch, he certainly didn’t say anything. It wasn’t as if Jaskier was _consciously_ making the choice to cling to Geralt so steadily, either.

It just kept happening.

He was aware, vaguely, of shared expressions of disgust over their heads or when their backs were turned - but aside from that, both Lambert and Eskel were oddly quiet about the whole thing. He’d been expecting a little more from them, honestly: Geralt had prepared him for the worst, and it had yet to manifest.

It was a little unsettling. He’d expected - not a _fight_ , but _something_. Something to rally against. And it felt wrong, somehow, to be the one leading the attack when there was very little to attack against.

They made their way around the upper levels and then back down, ten minutes left until the exhibition - it was on darkness, apparently - was due to open. Lambert and Eskel made the pragmatic decision not to join them: Eskel said he’d had enough of the bloody thing already, having shown more school children around it than he could possibly count over the last month, while Lambert was a lot less subtle.

“An hour away from the lovebirds?” He’d grinned, clapping his hands together. “Sounds great.”

Geralt was leading them towards a shortcut - through another long hall full of yet _more_ dinosaur skeletons to come out the other side, right next to the entrance. Jaskier went ahead while Geralt stayed behind after a somewhat mumbled excuse that he needed to use the loo.

Jaskier had bitten back a giggle at that. It was unlike Geralt to be shy or hesitant about _anything_ , but he’d muttered it like a teenager on a date.

He tried not to linger on _that_ thought. This was not a date, he told himself, for the umpteenth time. Not even _close_ to a date.

He walked down the long hall, peering at the skeletons, perfect and pressed against the wall. The sudden absence of Geralt at his side - of Geralt’s hand in his - sucked at him, like the space left behind from a fallen tooth, desperate to be prodded at. He’d been gone barely two minutes - but he _missed_ him. It was like part of him had fallen away.

 _Fuck_ , this was bad. This was tragic and awful and terrible and a dozen other words for ‘bad’ that Jaskier didn’t have the time to list. Kissing Geralt had been foolish, and agreeing to this charade had been stupid - but _this_? This was a choice he’d made, knowing that it would end in him getting hurt, _knowing_ that the only conclusion to this evening would be him, alone in his bed, quietly staring at the ceiling and thinking about all the things he wanted but could never have.

If he was a sensible man, he’d pull Geralt aside when he returned and tell him that the whole thing was off, that his brothers had won and they were backing down. If he were a sensible man, he’d consider the position he was inevitably going to find himself in later and try to have some sense of sympathy for that broken man.

But he _wasn’t_ a sensible man. He was an irrational man and - far worse than that - he was a man in love.

He’d been joking about being in love with Geralt for years, now. It had been flippant and funny. He’d think about being in love with him in the same way he’d think about being in love with a celebrity, or a _concept_. It wasn’t supposed to be real. It was a defence mechanism: no one could accuse him of harbouring such feelings for his best friend if he readily confessed to them.

Not that anyone _did_. But he suspected they knew regardless.

The joke wasn’t a joke, anymore. It wasn’t just a barrier between him and the truth: It _was_ the truth. He was in love with Geralt in that burning, boiling, all-consuming way that drove him mad - drove him to do things like _this_.

Which meant, of course, that he’d carry on this charade until the night was up, just to get a glimpse of what could be - just to hold Geralt’s hand for a few hours more.

He rounded the corner into the next hallway, totally lost in thought. He’d just passed through the huge double doors when there was a voice behind him.

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier spun on his heel. Lambert was half-jogging to catch up with him. “Hey,” he said, “What’s—”

“Can we talk?”

Jaskier looked around. They were alone.

“Sure,” he said, uncertainly. “You’re not about to give me the shovel talk, are you?”

Lambert flashed him a grin. “I wasn’t going to,” he said, “But I will if you think I need to.”

“No, no,” said Jaskier, hastily. “No thanks. I think merely a severe look will suffice, and I can fill in the blanks. What’s up?”

“Nothing’s _up_. It’s just…”

“Yeah?”

“I know we’ve been taking the piss all evening…”

“Mmhmm.”

“But I wanted to say - _we_ wanted to say - that, you know. We’re happy for you. Both of you.” Lambert gave an awkward shrug, wiggling his shoulders. “Lebioda’s balls, I knew I should have made Eskel do this…”

Jaskier said nothing, setting his face into a reassuring expression.

“Look,” Lambert said, finally, “Geralt… he’s a grumpy arsehole sometimes but I love him, yeah? He’s my brother. And… you two work together. _Fuck_.” He rubbed at his brow, a beer held in the other hand. “That didn’t sound right. You two are good together, yeah? You make him happy. I’m glad he’s got you.”

That took Jaskier by surprise. “Oh,” he managed, shocked. “Thank you, Lambert. That… that actually means a lot, coming from you.”

Lambert smiled. “And, _yeah_ ,” he continued, “I’m kinda annoyed that you didn’t tell us before now. We’re not _that_ bad. But Geralt’s always been a bit prickly about this stuff and I just figured, after Yen…” he shrugged again. “I kinda wish you’d told us _before_ you two got engaged, though.”

Guilt twisted in Jaskier’s chest. Guilt for not telling them - even though it was a lie - and guilt for the lie itself.

“Fuck, Lambert, I—”

“Hey,” Lambert raised his hands, and Jaskier fell silent. “It’s fine. I get it. Sometimes these things just happen. _Yeah_ , it’s a bit unexpected…” he stopped himself with a sharp laugh. “Nah, actually, it’s not. It’s _sudden_. But you two make a good couple.” He smacked a hand to Jaskier’s shoulder - the closest to a hug he’d get from him. “Welcome to the family. I mean it.”

Jaskier smiled, hoping his face didn’t betray how fucking awful he felt. “Thanks.”

**~**

Geralt wiped his still-damp hands on his jacket, heading the way he’d sent Jaskier a few minutes earlier. He was still feeling warm and uncomfortable, despite splashing water over his face as soon as the bathroom had emptied. He couldn’t tell if it was the room, the awful suit, or the fact that Jaskier hadn’t let go of his hand for nearly an hour.

Not that he _wanted_ him too, of course. The sudden silence of the huge bathrooms had been strangely oppressive - usually, Geralt _liked_ being alone, craved his independence, but over the past evening he’d gotten quite used to being alone with someone else.

The hall was empty, thankfully, and as he trudged past the displays he hoped the little damp strands of hair on either side of his face didn’t give him away too much. Jaskier couldn’t know how much this whole thing was affecting him.

He was about to turn into the next hallway, when he heard voices. Voices he knew very well: Jaskier and Lambert, deep in conversation.

He paused, just beyond the double doors. They were talking about _them_.

“You two make a good couple.”

This wasn’t mockery. This wasn’t the ongoing wave of banter and teasing he’d come to expect from Lambert - this was _genuine_.

“Welcome to the family.”

He should walk towards them, make himself known. He should stop listening in on a conversation between his brother and, fuck - not his fiancé, not _really_ , but his best friend. He should head over there, and act like everything was fine, and—

He turned and rushed down the corridor in the opposite direction, ears ringing. He barely even thought about where he was going, letting his feet lead the way, away from the throngs of people. He passed Renfri, who appeared to be in a heated debate with someone he didn’t recognise about bird classifications. She peered at him as he walked past, and looked like she was about to say something, but he gave her a quick nod and strode on, never breaking his stride.

He headed up the huge stone steps, leaving the party behind him. He wasn’t really heading anywhere specific - just _away_ , away from it all.

He finally came to rest in one of the smaller, less interesting rooms: an exhibition on rocks and minerals. He thought of Jaskier’s joking about geology being dull. Hopefully in here he wouldn’t be imposed upon. No one wanted to hang about in a room full of rocks when there were dozens of more interesting exhibitions open downstairs.

This had gone too far. Geralt paced in the empty room, quiet and cool, away from the noise of people downstairs. How had he gotten it so wrong?

He needed to put a stop to this. His brothers had teased him, as he expected, and they’d given back as good as they’d gotten, but it was quickly becoming clear that beneath the banter they were _genuinely_ pleased for them.

Everyone thought it was real. And it hurt. All his wild daydreams, his thoughts of _what if_ , he’d kept them pressed down for so long using the unshakable knowledge that Jaskier didn’t care for him in the same way he did. Jaskier would _never_ care for him like that.

But no one else seemed to agree. No one else saw it as absurd or ridiculous or unbelievable. Even Lambert, who could be relied on for his dismissive, bad-tempered response to these sorts of things, had welcomed Jaskier into the family.

The overheard conversation kept replaying in Geralt’s head. To an outsider, it would have appeared that Lambert was just playing the part of the dutiful, welcoming brother. But Geralt _knew_ Lambert. That was as emotional as he was likely to get.

It was a soft, comforting thought: that Geralt’s family explicitly and unquestionably accepted Jaskier into their lives, welcoming him as another brother. It made it even easier to imagine what it would be like if they _were_ together - to fold Jaskier into his family.

But it had gone on long enough. It already hurt more than Geralt could stand, pretending that Jaskier was his - that he would _be_ his for an imagined forever. He’d regain his composure, head back into the main building, pull Jaskier aside and tell him that they needed to tell the truth. He needed to rip the plaster off, taking the skin with it.

“You remembered the codeword, then?”

Startled, Geralt turned to see Jaskier leaning in the doorway. Even the sight of him made his chest feel tight, his heart squeezing. It was madness, Geralt knew: seeing Jaskier made him feel safe, made him feel _home_ , even though it was Jaskier who was the cause of his current state.

“ _Shall we go and look in the hall of minerals_ ,” Jaskier continued, peering at a cabinet full of geodes.

“Is that how you found me?”

Jaskier shook his head. “I totally forgot, to be honest. Renfri said she’d seen you coming this way…” he looked up. “Should have known I’d find you in the most boring room in the building, really. Not even any dinosaurs,” he added with a soft chuckle, “it’s just rocks all the way down.”

He moved away from the geodes towards Geralt, his boots thudding on the wooden floor.

“Did you know,” he said, almost too casually, “that there’s an exhibit downstairs with these little diaphonized frogs in it? It’s amazing! You can see all their bones.” He reached Geralt’s side and examined the case behind him. “And yet here you are with the sedimentary rocks.”

“Metamorphic.” Geralt corrected him without evening looking around.

“Right,” chuckled Jaskier. “Metamorphic. Obviously.” He reached out, placing a light hand on Geralt’s shoulder. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine? You kinda… vanished.”

“Yeah.” Geralt ran his hand through his hair, dislodging the bun that Jaskier had so meticulously tied, sending strands flying. “It got a bit much.”

“Sorry,” said Jaskier, an apology that Geralt knew was more sincere than automatic, “It’s a bit… odd, isn’t it? Everyone being all…” he waggled his fingers with a sad little smile, trailing off.

“...Yeah,” conceded Geralt.

Except - it wasn’t, really. Pretending to be Jaskier’s partner came surprisingly easily. It was like all those thoughts he tried to tamp down come to life - all those soft dreams. It felt natural, and effortless, and - unfortunately for him - _right_. It was knowing that after this evening it would all come to an end that felt odd. In a few hours, they’d leave the building and stumble back onto the empty tube, and everything would go back to the way it was.

This game they were playing was all just a balancing act, yet Geralt didn’t particularly want it to end. As far as Jaskier was concerned, they were just messing about, baiting his brothers - playing chicken and waiting for the other person to duck away.

It was going to end, and he’d be torn in two, knowing that it was all his fault. He’d brought this upon himself, knowing how much it would hurt.

“I heard you and Lambert talking,” he said, finally.

“Ah. Geralt—”

“I think we should tell them.”

“...Yeah. We should.”

At least they were on the same page. It was a relief, but the relief itself stung: it was confirmation that Jaskier couldn’t maintain the act, that he didn’t want to be with him - pretend or otherwise.

Jaskier was watching him closely, expression unreadable. He reached up, brushing imaginary lint from Geralt’s lapels before turning on his tie. “You’re all crooked,” he muttered, “here…”

He tugged at the stain fabric, pulling it loose, before retying it with his slender, dextrous fingers. He gave it a little jerk, making sure it was centered and symmetrical.

“There,” he said, hands lingering on Geralt’s chest. “That’s better.”

He was about to move away, but Geralt placed his hands over Jaskier’s, keeping them in place. Jaskier froze, peering at him, a pretty pink blush playing over his cheekbones. Without saying anything, Geralt lowered their hands, keeping Jaskier’s gripped within his own, rubbing his knuckles with his thumbs.

Jaskier chucked - short, hollow, a little sad. “There’s no one else here, Geralt,” he said, looking away. “You don’t need to pretend.”

“I’m not…” Geralt swallowed, his tongue unwieldy in his mouth, the words blocked. Jaskier’s hands felt heavy in his own, like all the world rested on them. “I’m not pretending.”

Jaskier finally glanced up at him. His brows were furrowed. “Don’t tease,” he said, quietly.

With reluctance, Geralt released one of Jaskier’s hands, reaching up and gently cupping the side of his face. His thumb rested on the very edge of Jaskier’s lip, and he resisted the urge to stroke the soft skin there. Jaskier’s mouth opened just a fraction, his eyes wide, pupils dark. His hand, still gripped in Geralt’s, twitched ever so slightly.

“Jasker…”

He muttered it, like a prayer. Like a curse.

And then Geralt was kissing him.

It wasn’t quick, like the first time, and it wasn’t a revelation like the second - it was soft and testing and unsure, a question Geralt couldn’t let himself ask out loud. He wanted to move his hand, to stroke the curve of Jaskier’s jaw, to press his fingers into his hair and hold him, but he dared not - dare not push him, dare not make him feel like he couldn’t leave if this wasn’t what he wanted.

But - somehow - Jaskier _didn’t_ leave. He made a soft, shocked little noise, leaning into the touch, his lips fluttering lightly against Geralt’s, gripping his hand. Neither of them moved; they stood, nearly frozen apart from the gentle dance of their lips. Geralt let his eyes slide shut, overwhelmed with the sensation of Jaskier against him, the heat of his body, the softness of his mouth.

It was elating, his heart thundering beneath his awful, itchy shirt, his skin lighting up. It was everything - but -

But it was _Jaskier_. Jaskier who was free and wild and mad enough to convince him to scam all the restaurants in a five mile radius of his house. Jaskier who may _want_ him, but could never be _in love_ with him, not in the same way, not like this—

He broke the kiss, stepping back with a hard gasp, releasing Jaskier’s hand.

“I shouldn’t—” he started, stumbling with his words. “I _can’t_.”

He was expecting Jaskier to argue, or to look hurt - but instead, he backed away, giving him space, his expression warm.

“Geralt,” he rubbed his fingers, twisting them together. “Stop panicking. Stop thinking about morals and ethics and what’s _right_ and think about…” he sighed, and his fingers stilled. “Think about what you _want_.” He took a cautious step closer. “What _do_ you want? Not yesterday, and not the future, not - _fuck -_ not even tomorrow. What do you want _now?_ You’re _allowed_ to—”

Geralt surged forwards. A startled squeak escaped Jaskier’s lips before Geralt desperately crashed against them, his hands cupping Jaskier’s face. This time Geralt didn’t hesitate, didn’t give in to caution and hesitance. He kissed Jaskier like he _wanted_ to kiss him, like he’d imagined kissing him - fierce and bold and reckless.

Jaskier responded instantly and in kind, folding his arms around Geralt’s neck, tugging him closer. Their teeth clashed and their noses bumped together but neither of them stopped, neither pulled away. Clearly emboldened by Geralt’s sudden move, Jaskier traced the line of his mouth with his tongue, searching - another question, and one that Geralt was keen to answer.

He tasted of wine and heat and _home_ , and it was intoxicating.

Geralt allowed his hands to move down, down the slightly rough fabric of the golden jacket to Jaskier’s hips, tugging him closer. Jaskier made a happy sound against Geralt’s lips and he grabbed him even tighter, pliant beneath his fingertips.

They stumbled backwards and Jaskier slammed into the oak wood wall behind them, gasping into Geralt’s mouth. Still they didn’t part, Jaskier pinned beneath Geralt to the wall behind, his hands tangling in Geralt’s hair, tugging at the roots more gently than Geralt would have preferred.

He let his hands slide beneath Jaskier’s jacket, slipping against the satin of his shirt, bunching and twisting beneath his fingers. The smooth fabric was yielding beneath his hands, and he easily pulled it free from the waistband of Jaskier’s infuriatingly tight trousers.

He glided his hands beneath the satin, pressing into Jaskier’s warm, inviting skin. He felt so _good_ beneath his fingers, soft and touchable, begging to be squeezed. Jaskier mumbled a little noise against Geralt’s mouth - a groan, perhaps a word - and he let his hands roam to the small of his back and higher, up his spine. Jaskier arched beneath him, and Geralt could feel the hardness of his cock pressing to Geralt’s leg, making his own twitch in response.

Still pressed against the wall, Geralt cupped both hands around Jaskier’s arse and hoisted him up. Moving in tandem with him, reacting instinctively, Jaskier looped his legs around Geralt’s waist and his arms around his shoulders, hanging on - balanced between Geralt and the wall. Now there was no hiding either of their arousals - pressed together, the maddening friction growing hot and urgent beneath layers of stretched fabric.

Jaskier ducked his head, finally breaking the kiss, letting his lips slide down to Geralt’s jaw, hovering lightly over his neck to the soft divot where it met his shoulders. His lips were wet and soft, and Geralt shuddered as he sucked at the sensitive skin, his tongue flicking over his collarbone.

Geralt wanted to touch him, wanted to fling the infuriating jacket away and rip off the satin and see his bare skin, but he couldn’t move his hands: not when Jaskier was so precariously perched atop them. Jaskier’s teeth pressed into his neck and he bit back a moan, making Jaskier chuckle beneath him, the sound vibrating through his chest. He squeezed his arse, aware that he couldn’t let go, and Jaskier let out a warm breath against his skin.

Apparently confident that Geralt wasn’t about to drop him, Jaskier moved his hands down, over Geralt’s shoulders and across his chest. The fabric of Geralt’s shirt was thin and useless, and Jaskier quickly found one of his nipples, flicking at it through the cotton. Geralt bucked against him and Jaskier repeated the movement with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan, before moving away to begin to fiddle with the buttons of the shirt, his hands warm against Geralt’s chest.

“Fuck,” he muttered, as Geralt pressed his mouth to his neck, “ _Geralt_ …”

Geralt was suddenly struck with a thought - quick and terrible - and with reluctance he pulled away. Jaskier peered at him, his eyes wide and dark, his lips pink and puffy.

“We shouldn’t…”

“Not _this_ again…”

“No, I…” Geralt quickly looked over his shoulder to the corner of the room, then back to Jaskier. “Cameras.”

“Oh.” Jaskier paused, thinking. “No… secluded broom closets? Locked cupboards…”

Geralt chuckled, leaning back in, letting his lips play on the skin of Jaskier’s neck as Jaskier wrapped his arms around him once more. “This is one of the most secure buildings in the city,” he muttered. “We’ll get caught. We _can’t_.”

“In that case you absolutely will need to—” He stuttered as Geralt nipped at his earlobe, “—to _stop that_ , Geralt, or I cannot guarantee what I might do next, cameras or not.”

Geralt hummed and unwillingly lowered Jaskier down, already missing the heat where his legs had been wrapped around his middle. He pressed a kiss to his jaw, then his lips, before finally stepping away.

Jaskier looked like he’d been _ravished_. His hair was on end, his outfit askew, the satin shirt bunched up around his middle to reveal a swathe of hirsute skin, begging to be touched.

“You know…” said Jaskier, with lidded eyes, “we could just… sneak out the back. Go home. If you want to, that is.”

He _did_ want to. He wanted to with every inch of his being. But he had a duty, too. “I have to stay till the end.”

“Do you _really?”_

“I do.”

Jaskier huffed, leaning against the wall. “And how long will that be?”

Geralt glanced at his watch. “Two more hours.”

“Oh _Gods_. I may simply die before the night is up.”

“You’ll live.”

“Fine, _fine_ , you utter beast. Just… give me five minutes, hmm?”

“Are you sure five minutes will be long enough?” Geralt let his gaze slowly drag down Jaskier’s body, taking him in: his messy hair, his disheveled shirt and the unmistakable bulge of his erection still straining at the fabric of his trousers. When he finally turned back to his face, Jaskier was blushing furiously.

“You are _not_ helping,” he huffed.

“No?”

“No, you’re not. Looking at me like that. Downright indecent.”

“I’m just concerned that it won’t be enough time.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Jaskier snorted, tugging his shirt down before stepping closer, tilting his head into the crook of Geralt’s neck. “Is that a fossilised iguanodon femur in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

Jaskier’s breath fluttered over Geralt’s skin, his lips temptingly close - but not quite touching. Geralt swallowed, the sensation tingling straight to his prick. Jaskier raised his eyebrows, and hummed.

“People will wonder where we’ve gotten to,” he said, his lips dangerously close to Jaskier’s.

“Everyone thinks we’re a newly engaged couple, Geralt,” he muttered, his words no more than a whisper. “They’ll all be assuming we’ve been doing this _anyway_. Just so happens that they’re right.”

“Hmm,” Geralt let his lips drift over Jaskier’s - not quite a kiss, but close. “As much as I’d hate to disappoint them, we have to go back at some point.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

Geralt’s hand shot out, gripping Jaskier’s waist. He let his hand stroke across his back, his fingers pressing into Jaskier’s skin.

“Two hours,” he muttered. “It’s not that long.”

“Agree to disagree,” Jaskier responded, shuddering a little beneath the touch.

Geralt kissed him, the movement urgent, letting their lips dance, their tongues explore - for only a moment, before pulling away. This time he took a real step back, horribly aware that if he kept this up they’d _never_ go back downstairs.

“Five minutes?” He said, raising his eyebrows.

Jaskier huffed, and began to tuck his shirt back into his trousers. “Make it fifteen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! So, there’s a _lot_ in this chapter that I wanted to talk about (not just makin’ out amongst the rocks).
> 
> The museums that are mentioned are inspired by [the actual NHM in the UK](https://href.li/?https://www.nhm.ac.uk/). The one that Geralt works at in Novigrad is based on the London branch, Oxenfurt is Oxford (of course), and the one in Cidaris that Renfri mentions, with the nightmare taxidermy, is Tring (my personal favourite). 
> 
> Dippy the dinosaur is no longer the main attraction in the main hall - its now the big whale skeleton, but I much prefer Dippy. Sorry, Whale.
> 
> The animatronic T-Rex is also real, and there’s a video of it [here](https://youtu.be/wIEZHQ_wBsc).
> 
>  _Some_ of the places I mention are actual rooms or exhibits in the NHM. The rock room at the end is a bit of a mishmash of a few rooms.
> 
> Renfri’s story about the man who lost his birds because his mistress blackmailed is true. That’s the story of Walter Rothschild, and many of the specimens in the Tring museum are from his own personal collection. You can read a bit more about him [here](https://href.li/?https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/89577/eccentric-life-lord-walter-rothschild-and-blackmail-behind-one-worlds-biggest-bird).
> 
> The story about the dodo is true as well. There are no actual taxidermy dodos anywhere in the world, and the only soft tissue examples are in the Oxford NHM. You can find a video about the Oxford dodo [here](https://href.li/?https://youtu.be/Te_WHneeD3s).
> 
> It’s _also_ true (probably) that the dodo is made with swan feathers. This little fact comes from [_Dry Store Room No 1: The Secret Life of the Natural History Museum_ , by Richard Fortey.](https://href.li/?https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2553092.Dry_Store_Room_No_1)
> 
> The animals Geralt and Jaskier play “that’s you, that is” are real specimens from the Tring branch. I’ve uploaded photos both of them to my Tumblr, [here](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/post/642675547792621568/to-go-along-with-the-chapter-im-about-to-post-i).
> 
> You can find out more about Geralt’s dinosaur, Leptocleidus superstes, [here](https://href.li/?https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leptocleidus). I cannot guarantee that what I’ve said about dinosaurs in the fic itself is even _slightly_ correct. Please don’t come for me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, firstly - I'm sorry this chapter took so long. It started as one chapter, became two, life got Real Weird for a bit... you know how it goes. Secondly: please be aware! This chapter is bumping the rating up to an E! (awww yeaaahhh). Um... no one look at the chapter count.

_Agony_ was the only way Jaskier could describe the next two hours, the minutes dragging unbrokenly along. There was a shift, now, in the way Geralt stood next to him, the way their shoulders bumped together, the way their fingers brushed.

And, perhaps predictably, it wasn’t even two hours of waiting. He’d asked Geralt for fifteen minutes - just a quarter of an hour to calm himself down, straighten his clothes, tidy his hair. But fifteen had become twenty when Geralt had given him that _look_ , again - that hungry, near-predatory look, and frankly he just couldn’t help himself. Twenty minutes had become a full half hour, and by the time they returned there was barely ninety minutes left of the party.

Ninety minutes too many, as far as Jaskier was concerned.

They’d reappeared, looking a little more disheveled than when they’d left, causing raised eyebrows from Vesemir and a barrage of comments from Lambert and Eskel. Before, it had been easy to hurl innuendo and insults back, parrying swiftly and effectively, but now… now it was more difficult. The counters died in Jaskier’s throat.

Lambert pointed out that the hair at the back of his head - which had been so neatly styled an hour ago - was now an agitated mess, and earlier in the evening Jaskier would have spat something back, something bold and lurid - _that’d be where your brother had me pressed against the wall while you weren’t looking_. But now that was _true_ , and he couldn’t say it.

Conversations seemed to be happening _around_ Jaskier, not _with_ him, going over his head, passing him by. He was totally distracted, too aware of Geralt standing next to him, their hands touching, their shoulders bumping. The others teased him, clearly attempting to elicit a response, but all Jaskier could manage was a vague, nervous laugh.

He couldn’t tell if anyone had noticed his sudden change in mood. As far as everyone else was concerned, suddenly vanishing together and kissing in darkened rooms was something that he and Geralt had been doing with regularity for some time. And now that assumption was _right_ , he didn’t know what to do with it. There was no counter that didn’t leave him flustered and stammering. They’d been surrounded by people since returning to the party, and they’d found themselves back in that pretending space: but now Jaskier couldn’t tell if they were pretending or not.

Finally, the evening drew to an anticlimactic close and the five of them bundled onto the tube, Lambert and Eskel noisily arguing about something Jaskier hadn’t caught. He felt nervous and twitchy, his leg bouncing. This _waiting_ was too much. Geralt seemed unphased, teasing Eskel, one arm casually slung around Jaskier’s shoulders. The touch would have been welcome, a few hours ago: it would have sent silent shivers down Jaskier’s spine, igniting that little feeling in his chest even more.

But now, now that he _knew_ that Geralt wanted him, it was different. All he could think of was the feeling of Geralt’s hands on his skin, and knowing that there was more to come.

 _Probably_ more to come. He wouldn’t push. He wouldn’t even _ask_ , not if it felt like Geralt had changed his mind. He was regularly reminded that Geralt was significantly more sensible than him, and if either of them were to realise that this was a terrible idea - and to do something to put a stop to it - it would be him.

That made him feel a little guilty: relying on Geralt to be his moral compass. But nothing, now, would stop him: not if Geralt kissed him again, not if he could feel his hands against his bare skin once more. All he could do was wait. It could take as long as an hour for them to get home: far too long. Long enough for Geralt to realise.

He was barely following along with Geralt’s brothers’ bickering and Vesemir’s half-hearted attempts to mediate. Geralt was more engaged - but as he sat beside Jaskier on the dusty, luridly patterned seats his leg was wildly bouncing. Jaskier desperately wanted to reach out and put a calming hand on his knee - but the idea of actually _touching_ him like that suddenly felt dangerous, even with Geralt’s arm still thrown over his shoulders.

To touch Geralt like he wanted to - in front of everyone else, no less - would throw into sharp relief how fragile this new thing between them was. Perhaps just a single touch was all it would take for it to shatter.

Finally, Geralt’s family disembarked, Vesemir congratulating them - again - and Eskel making a crude comment and quickly ducking away before the doors could slide shut on him. There was a moment of silence before the train pulled away from the platform and into the darkness of the tunnel.

They were completely alone. Geralt’s fingers twitched on Jaskier’s shoulder. He turned, at last, allowing himself to look - to look in the way he’d been trying not to since returning to the party.

Oh, _fuck_. Any thoughts that Geralt might have changed his mind were swiftly dismissed. His expression was dark and his eyes were lidded. He licked his lips.

Jaskier surged forwards with such force that he nearly pushed Geralt backwards onto the seat beside him. He made a muffled sound against his lips - it could have been his name, could have been a moan - before his hands were gripped around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him closer.

They had just a minute, maybe two, before the train arrived at the next station. Jaskier had no qualms about such indecent displays of affection in public, but Geralt, he suspected, may not be as keen.

Soon - far too soon - Jaskier could feel the train slowing and hear the brakes squeaking, as they headed into the brightness of the next station. He pulled away, breathing heavily, Geralt watching his movements with interest, his eyes darting to his lips. The train came to a shuddering halt, and the doors noisily slid open.

No one got on.

The doors slid shut.

This time, it was Geralt who moved first, and his hands were pressed to Jaskier’s hips before the train had even left the station. Horribly aware of how little time they had, Jaskier really _did_ push forwards now, heaving Geralt backwards till he was flush against the seat, trapped beneath him. It was an awkward angle - their legs tangled together, the seat too narrow for Jaskier to really reach Geralt’s lips without actually clambering onto his lap. He resisted that urge, somehow, pressing hot kisses to Geralt’s mouth, his jaw, his neck - stopped only by the collar of his stuffy, high-buttoned shirt.

That evening, before they’d left, he’d admired Geralt in his suit. But the man below him now - smart and proper and kissing him with ferocity - was that, truly, the same man he saw every day pottering about in his pyjamas, lounging on the sofa wearing nearly worn-through socks? The same Geralt who let him lean against him while he swore at his newest game? The person who’d been there for him countless times, who’d let him snottily sob against him after yet another relationship had ended in disaster?

He’d admired Geralt in his neat suit and foolish high-collared shirt. He was _attracted_ to him. But that wasn’t the Geralt he’d fallen in love with. Not the Geralt who let him sleep in his bed when he was too pissed to return to his own, not the one who wandered around Tesco with him, not the one who’d noticed when he’d stolen his shirt - again - but hadn’t asked for it back.

Jaskier swallowed heavily, and Geralt pulled back, his eyes questioning. “Jaskier?”

He realised he’d frozen, that he’d gone still against Geralt, still trapped underneath him. He peered up at him, looking a little worried. The hungry expression had nearly vanished, leaving half-amused concern. He raised his eyebrows, and then - _there._ Jaskier’s heart leapt up into his throat.

 _That_ was the Geralt that he’d fallen in love with.

“Sorry,” he muttered, as Geralt sat up, pushing him back. “Just…”

He didn’t have time to finish that sentence - a relief, really, coming so close to spilling his secret at Geralt’s feet - as the train pulled into the station, his words cut off by the crackling of the overhead announcement proclaiming they’d reached their stop.

Geralt didn’t seem to mind, and Jaskier could barely think straight, could barely _walk_ straight, as they hurried from the station. The walk back to the house wasn’t really that long, but they bundled into a taxi regardless.

Now they were no longer alone, the forced distance between them felt like _miles_. Jaskier’s skin tingled where Geralt had touched him, his lips burning, a hot ache in his core. He wanted more - but not yet. He stared out of the window, not trusting himself to look at Geralt, focusing instead on the blurred passing lights beyond, the rush of passing traffic.

The cracked seat beneath him was wobbling, slightly. He shot a quick glance sideways. Geralt’s leg was bouncing again. He too was staring out the window, his shoulders set, but that leg was beating out a rhythm on the sticky floor of the cab. Suddenly, as if aware he was being watched, Geralt turned, catching his gaze.

A car sped past, illuminating his face in yellows and reds. Jaskier could only stare, his heart thundering in his ears.

Finally they were home. Geralt pushed open the front door with one hand, grabbing Jaskier with the other, both stumbling over the front step into the hallway. Jaskier kicked the door shut behind them and had barely a moment to breathe before Geralt had him pressed against the wood, their bodies flush, lips dancing.

“Do you want to—” he managed, as Geralt paused to take a breath, “—do you want to go upstairs?”

Geralt mumbled an assent against his lips and stepped backwards, but Jaskier was struck with the memory of being moaned at about mud and dirt and _carpets_. Geralt was _fastidious_ about tidiness, especially upstairs, _especially_ in his room. This wasn’t the tube, this wasn’t even the museum: this was their _home_.

“Wait, hold on…”

“What is it?”

“I have to…” He realised how foolish it sounded as he said it, the words slipping out, “my boots…”

Jaskier extracted himself from Geralt’s grip, sat down heavily on the stairs and began to tug at the laces of his boots, the action almost automatic. He silently cursed himself for wearing docs and not something he could simply kick off, wasting precious minutes.

He untangled the mess of the first lace and pulled the boot off, moving onto the second, fingers struggling on the laces - stupid _fucking_ double knots. He was aware he was wasting time - aware that precious moments in Geralt’s arms were slipping away from him - but it felt suddenly important, suddenly _imperative_. He didn’t want to give Geralt a reason to turn him away, to change his mind and ban him from his room. Wearing dirty boots might be as good a reason as any.

He was tugging the cord loose, about to remove the second boot, when Geralt suddenly bent, kneeling on the stair below him, pushing his knees apart to sit between his legs. He noticed, absurdly, that Geralt had removed his own shoes, revealing ever-sensible black socks beneath.

Jaskier stilled as Geralt reached up, placing a warm hand on both of his knees, keeping his legs parted.

“Geralt…”

The suit bunched around his knees, the jacket tight across his shoulders, the collar rumpled where Jaskier had been pawing at it. In the warm yellow light of the hallway, his face seemed softened, the expensive black fabric not quite as dark.

Geralt didn’t say anything, but licked his lips and began to drag his hands slowly from Jaskier’s knees up his legs, towards his crotch. Jaskier could feel his heart stuttering beneath his ribs, his face flushing. His cock - already eager - was suddenly alert as he leant back a little, letting Geralt move unimpeded. He inched upwards, sinking lower, pressing into his thighs. He edged closer till his palm was just inches from Jaskier’s prick and his lips were ghosting above his mouth.

He wet his lips, and Jaskier felt the softness of his tongue on his mouth. Neither of them moved. Jaskier was filled with a ringing, tingling potential - the whisper of things to come, the promise of more.

And then, finally, Geralt closed the gap - closed both gaps at once, his hand pressing firmly against the unmistakable bulge of Jaskier’s erection as he kissed him. Jaskier gasped against him, instinctively chasing the touch, thrusting forwards into Geralt’s grip. Geralt smiled and pushed even closer, lowering him down till he was laying on the stairs, legs still spread around Geralt’s hips.

Geralt looked down at him from his position above hungrily, his pupils wide. He moved away, and Jaskier couldn’t help the soft little noise of complaint that escaped his lips - cut short as Geralt grabbed at the satin shirt once more, tugging it up and over his head and tossing it aside.

Jaskier felt suddenly exposed - aware of how much of his skin was on show, Geralt hovering above him, gazing at him. The inaccurate triceratops still nestled against Jaskier’s chest, and Geralt reached out, plucking it between his fingers and looping the long chain over Jaskier’s neck, pulling that away too and hooking it, carefully, over the wooden bannister finial.

He thought perhaps Geralt would kiss him again - but instead he leant back, drifting his fingers over Jaskier’s left arm, tickling in the crook of his elbow, over his wrist to his hand. And then he paused, their fingers nearly linked. Jaskier realised, with a little start, that he was still wearing the ring: he’d completely forgotten about it in the rush.

It was such a plain, simple thing. Odd then, that seeing it made his stomach twist, made his heart thunder, made his face flush even more.

"Should I take it off?" Jaskier whispered, watching as Geralt stroked the length of his fingers.

 _Tell me to take it off_ , he thought, urgently. _Tell me to take it off, because we aren’t - because we can’t be—_

Geralt pulled his hand closer, pressing his lips to his fingertips, the bend in the digits, hovering over the joints, before finally looking up at him.

 _Tell me to take it off_ , he thought, _because if you don’t, I never will._

“Keep it on,” Geralt whispered, his breath warm against Jaskier’s fingers.

 _Fuck_. That shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. It shouldn’t have sent waves of heat down Jaskier’s spine, pooling in his stomach, making his cock twitch. The line between real and fake had been thoroughly dashed, blurred till there was nothing left, and now - with his hand in Geralt’s, the ring gleaming in the light - it felt like this really _could_ be real. This could be a wedding night, could be the evening he’d imagined all those weeks ago.

He could have this night - this single night - of pretending that Geralt was _his_.

Or that he was Geralt’s.

Maybe Geralt could tell - maybe he’d realised what effect this was having on him - because he gave him one last look before kissing Jaskier's fingertips and then, swiftly, letting them into his mouth. Jaskier trapped his bottom lip between his teeth as he felt Geralt’s tongue hot and wet on his fingers, his lips clamped around them. It was easy - devastatingly easy - to imagine those lips gripped around his cock.

Geralt was watching him closely, then extracted Jaskier’s fingers from his mouth before moving back down his arm, pressing a line of kisses across his skin. When he reached his neck, he paused for only a moment, then Jaskier could feel his tongue playing there, pushing into the flesh, and then - more - his teeth. Jaskier moaned as Geralt sucked at his skin, bucking forwards, desperate for more contact.

Geralt moved away, his lips pink and wet. Jaskier could only stare at him, utterly overwhelmed.

“Shall we?”

Jaskier didn’t even respond, pulling off and throwing aside the remaining boot and getting quickly to his feet, Geralt tugging him up. Together they stumbled up the stairs then slammed against Jaskier’s bedroom door, the wood creaking beneath them. Jaskier realised, far too late, what Geralt was doing as his hand scrambled for the handle and he heaved the door open, sending Jaskier toppling backwards. Geralt caught him before he could fall - drawing him close, huffing a laugh into his neck, before looking up, and—

“Seriously, Jaskier?”

Jaskier turned to peer into his room. Piles of clothes remained on every surface, scattered across the floor, on the bed. He’d rather hoped Geralt wouldn’t see. Jaskier looked back up at Geralt’s unimpressed expression.

“What?” He countered, “I wasn’t exactly expecting to _pull_ this evening.”

Geralt sighed, but there was a fondness beneath the exasperation - something warm that made Jaskier’s stomach flip.

“My bed’s bigger anyway.”

Jaskier reached behind himself, tugging his door closed again, hiding the mess. As soon as the door clicked shut, Geralt’s hands made their way to his sides once more, gripping his hips, roaming down to squeeze at his arse.

Jaskier reached for Geralt’s nape, digging into the fuzzy hair, then up to his roots. His fingers nestled into his scalp, then he caught the long strands between his fingers and - timed with another kiss - tugged. Geralt gasped into his mouth, and in a quick movement he’d reached up and pulled the hairband out, pulling it onto his wrist as his long, silvery white hair fell about in a cascade, framing his face.

Gods - it was almost too much. This was _Geralt_. It was Geralt touching him, Geralt’s lips hovering over his skin, Geralt’s hardening prick pressing against his leg. This was everything he’d thought about for _years_ , what he’d dreamed of on more than one occasion, what thrilled him and filled him with guilt in equal measure. And now it was happening, those daydreams coalescing into reality.

He couldn’t think with Geralt gripping him, with his lips and his tongue and his fucking _teeth_ burning against his skin. He had to remind himself - again - that this was just sex. It wasn’t the first time that Jaskier had gone to bed with a friend, but he’d always assumed that Geralt didn’t go in for that sort of thing.

He’d been wrong, clearly. He knew he was wrong from the way Geralt gasped against his skin, from the way his cock jutted against his own. This wasn’t just sex - this was sex _distilled_ , an evening of longing shrunk down to a single moment. Geralt didn’t love him - that much Jaskier knew - but he _wanted_ him, and that was enough, even if it would sting later.

“Jaskier…” Geralt muttered in his ear, his voice heading straight to Jaskier’s prick. “Do you…” there was hesitation in his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Do you still want to…”

Geralt was giving him a choice. He could say no. He _should_ say no, protect his already fragile heart.

But he’d never say no. He wanted this too much and he’d wanted it for too long.

This was an opportunity to get it out of his system, to scratch at a decade-long itch. After one night - just one night - he could rid himself of all of the daydreaming and the pining and return to just being Geralt’s _friend_ , nothing more. It would just be once, he thought, just to see what it was like.

Anyway, maybe Geralt was an incredibly selfish lover who would leave Jaskier feeling unsatisfied, allowing him to thoroughly turn his back on the whole situation.

Geralt pressed against him harder, breaking him out of his thoughts. He shuddered, drunk on a heady mix of arousal and anticipation. Of _all_ the ways this could end… he doubted it would be in disappointment. Geralt really _could_ be awful in bed, but he wouldn’t care. He didn’t need sex: he needed _him_ , and he wanted to give Geralt everything he wanted - everything _he_ needed, too.

“Yes,” he sighed, his voice cracked and needy. “ _Yes,_ Geralt.”

Geralt hummed against his skin, and without another word maneuvered him through the door and into his bedroom.

~

All those weeks ago, when Jaskier had kissed him for the first time, Geralt had never believed that he could be here, now, with his friend trapped between his arms, his lips crashing against his own, his hands squeezing his arse. Hell, even a few _hours_ ago he wouldn’t have been able to believe it. It was imaginary, a wish, a closed-off daydream. And now it was _happening_.

They stumbled through Geralt’s bedroom door, Jaskier’s tongue exploring his mouth. He tasted warm and sweet, and Geralt was half-drunk on him already. Ever since leaving the museum - an age ago, it seemed - he’d been buzzing with anticipation, but now that buzz was transforming into something else. He was _nervous_ , he realised, the fluttering feeling in his stomach not just the thrill of having Jaskier kiss him but something else, something that came shrouded in doubt.

He knew that Jaskier had slept with more people than him. Before, that hadn’t mattered, hadn’t even factored into his feelings for him. But now it seemed hugely important: Geralt wanted to be _good_ for him. He couldn’t tell Jaskier how he felt, and knew that he could never know: _must_ never know. But he wanted, at least, to please him - to somehow match Jaskier’s physical pleasure to his own intense feelings. What if he couldn’t? What if, simply, he wasn’t good enough?

He’d been Jaskier’s _friend_ for longer than he really knew. He’d been his best friend - the feeling quietly mutual - for slightly less. They’d seen each other at their worst: through break-ups, through family drama, through irrevocable changes. Geralt knew how to be Jaskier’s friend, and knew exactly where he fit into his life.

He was less certain on how he could be his lover. Even _that_ felt too romantic, too close to the truth. He knew it would be better for him to try to maintain a little distance - it wasn’t _love_ , it was _sex_ , just sex. But he knew, too, that he was going to willingly give himself to Jaskier, to take him apart and let Jaskier take _him_ apart in turn.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Geralt found himself wordlessly leading Jaskier towards his bed, working purely on instinct. He didn’t know what might happen next - didn’t _need_ to know. They didn’t have to have sex, they didn’t have to do _anything_ : he would accept, happily, if Jaskier curled beside him on the bed and decided he wanted to do nothing more than cuddle.

He suspected that would not be the case, though - not with the way that Jaskier’s lips were desperately moving against his, the way he was thrusting eagerly against his thigh as he placed his hands on Geralt’s shoulders, pushing him backwards.

Geralt felt the underside of his knees connect with the edge of the bed before toppling onto it, dragging Jaskier with him as they both tumbled onto the mattress. Now it was Jaskier taking the lead - pushing him, guiding him down the wide bed until his back connected with the headboard. He slotted himself between Geralt’s legs, kneeling between his thighs, then resumed kissing him as he began to fidget with the front of Geralt’s shirt.

The buttons were small and fiddly under even Jaskier’s dexterous fingers - it was taking far too long, and Geralt was desperate to feel Jaskier’s skin against his own, desperate to feel his hands upon him at last. His ears were ringing, like the far-away sound of waves, his skin flushed. Jaskier made quick work of his buttons while his lips stayed pressed to his, and every tiny brush of his fingers against Geralt’s chest made his cock harden even more. Finally, with a satisfied-sounding hum, Jaskier undid the final button and quickly slid his hands beneath the shirt, squeezing, roaming, like he was trying to feel as much of him as possible.

Geralt gasped at the touch, opening his mouth below Jaskier’s. Jaskier took this as an invitation, sliding his tongue across Geralt’s lip, tasting him. Geralt bit back a moan, pulling him even closer as Jaskier’s touch roamed up his back, over his sides, across his chest. He pinched at one of Geralt’s nipples and he shuddered, and Jaskier smiled again - the soft feeling of his quirking lips almost as good as the sensation of his hands on Geralt’s overly sensitive skin.

He could feel himself getting harder, and forced himself to resist the urge to buck forwards, to press his cock against Jaskier’s stomach. He didn’t want to come on too strong, risk scaring him off, somehow - but judging by the way Jaskier’s kisses had moved down, his mouth nuzzling in the crook of his neck, perhaps he didn’t need to worry.

Finally, Jaskier pulled back, his fingers lightly dancing across Geralt’s chest, hovering over his sternum - over his _heart_ , Geralt realised with a sudden pang. His lips were pink and swollen, his chest rising and falling in hot breaths.

Geralt peered down to where his fingertips were lightly brushing against the simple wolf’s head indelibly inked in the centre of his chest, the lines a little faded and blown-out after so long. Jaskier was staring at it, tracing the lines with his finger, dragging his nail across the prickling skin. On his other hand, skimming lightly over his skin, Geralt could see the gold band glimmer on his finger.

It was like his heart skipped a beat, like he’d missed a step. It winded him: it electrified him. It was like Jaskier was _his_ , like he’d tied himself to him, easily and willingly. Like the evening’s game hadn’t been a game at all. That thought made heat pool in his belly, a hot, undeniable ache that started in his chest and spread downwards.

And that - that stirring, that _need_ \- came twisted around guilt. Jaskier _wasn’t_ his. He needed to remember that.

Jaskier was still tracing the muddied line, close enough that when he spoke, Geralt could feel his breath on his skin.

“You know,” he muttered, “I’ve always loved this tattoo.”

Geralt struggled to respond. “Yeah?”

“Hmm…” Jaskier ducked down, pressing a kiss to the tattoo. Geralt shuddered again as he felt the warmth of Jaskier’s tongue on his skin. “Yeah.”

He couldn’t stand it any longer. Moving swiftly, Geralt began to shrug out of his shirt, pulling it up over his head so he could properly wrap his arms around Jaskier, feel their bodies together, _finally_ close those final inches.

The cuffs caught around his hands, the tiny buttons that kept them tight around his wrists still fastened. He realised, absurdly, that he was stuck, effectively bound by the shirt now hanging, absurdly, between his wrists. It meant that _Jaskier_ was trapped too, sat between his legs and caged between his arms. He huffed in frustration, pulling at the fabric.

“Hold on…” Jaskier laughed, “...let me.”

He twisted where he sat between Geralt’s thighs, turning around, nudging his arse against Geralt’s crotch. Geralt gasped and Jaskier pushed even harder against him, clearly enjoying himself.

He reached out, trailing his hand down Geralt’s arm, tugging it closer, before getting to work on the tiny fastenings against his wrist. He moved slowly and deliberately, opening the buttons and dragging his fingers along the soft skin beneath them. He pulled away the sleeve then brought Geralt’s arm up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the pliant skin of his wrist.

The touch was like lightning, sending sparks down Geralt’s spine, making his hair stand on end. Jaskier repeated the movement, this time allowing his tongue to sneak against Geralt’s wrist, his teeth scraping lightly against his skin. He bucked against Jaskier’s arse, but Jaskier only lightly _tsked_ before dropping his hand and moving to the other arm.

Without the restriction of the shirt, Geralt quickly slid his free arm around Jaskier’s torso, pulling him closer. He buried his lips into the crook of Jaskier’s neck as he began to tug at the second cuff. He hesitated, taking a sharp little intake of breath, so Geralt opened his mouth wider, tonguing at the sensitive skin.

Jaskier arched back but didn’t stop, and finally he’d pulled away the second sleeve, freeing Geralt’s arm before peppering his skin with kisses - one on his wrist, one to the palm of his hand, several to his fingertips.

He was about to turn around again, when Geralt stopped him, making use of his now unrestricted arms, crowding them around Jaskier’s chest. His back was warm and smooth, and Geralt was hyper aware of all the places their bodies touched, Jaskier’s slightly sweaty skin sticking to his own. He could feel himself hard and eager against Jaskier’s arse, but he was barely even thinking of that: he wanted to hear Jaskier make those delicious noises again.

With Jaskier pressed against him, he let his hands roam, his lips still nuzzling up and down his neck. His skin was soft and supple and _tempting_ , and he couldn’t resist nibbling at it, eliciting another of those soft half-moans. Emboldened, he opened his mouth wider, sucking - edging across it with his teeth. Jaskier really did moan now, his bare feet skittering in the blanket, forcing himself back against Geralt’s keenly alert prick.

He _liked_ this, clearly - and Geralt realised he was mentally mapping where Jaskier best liked to be touched, his most sensitive spots. He was learning him, _memorising_ him, even though it would never happen again.

Geralt’s hands drifted lower, over the dark hair of his torso. He flicked lightly at a nipple while the other hand edged down, over the soft flesh of his stomach, following the line of hair that vanished into the band of Jaskier’s trousers. He snuck his fingers underneath the fabric - only a tease, just a touch - drifting them back and forth between his hip bones. He repeated the movement three times - four - Jaskier wriggling below him, then flicked open the top button, nudging down the zipper and sliding his hand inside.

Jaskier gasped. “ _Fuck_.”

He was hot and unbelievably hard beneath him. Geralt could already feel a damp patch on the thin fabric of Jaskier’s boxers as he spread his fingers, curling them around his cock. Jaskier mumbled something and Geralt began to squeeze, gentle at first but - as Jaskier twisted around, choking warm breaths against his neck - he hardened the grip, stroking him through the fabric.

He writhed between Geralt’s thighs, his hands now placed on either knee, squeezing white-knuckled tight, harried little gasps escaping his lips. He wriggled against Geralts erection, making Geralt’s breath hitch too: he was almost painfully hard, and even the expensive fabric of his smart trousers couldn’t conceal that.

He clasped Jaskier through the soft fabric of his boxers with one hand, gently pinching at his nipple with the other. He twisted again.

“I, _fuck_ — Geralt—”

Geralt stilled, his hand still sandwiched between Jaskier’s cock and the tight fabric of his trousers. Being able to feel just how aroused Jaskier was made his own body tighten.

“Yes?” He muttered, his lips directly on top of his ear.

Jaskier took a quick breath, steadying himself. “If I don’t get these fucking trousers off in less than thirty seconds,” he mumbled, “I am _literally_ going to die.”

Geralt chuckled, finally pulling his hands away as Jaskier awkwardly shuffled against him, leaning forwards. Together, they peeled his trousers away, Geralt getting to his feet to better tug them off, taking Jaskier’s socks with them then throwing the whole thing aside.

He stared down at Jaskier, sprawled on the bed wearing just his tight boxer briefs, one arm slung behind his head and the other lazily stroking himself over his briefs. It was an _obscene_ sight, making Geralt’s heart thud, his chest squeeze, his blood rushing quickly and effectively south.

He was about to lower himself back onto the bed - to creep forwards and pull Jaskier’s boxers away too - when he paused. He looked more closely.

What he’d assumed were just brightly coloured polka dots adorning the dark fabric of Jaskier’s underwear were, in fact, tiny dinosaurs.

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said you weren’t expecting to pull?”

Jaskier sat up on his elbows. “I wasn’t,” he said, shortly, “I just appreciate the importance of _matching_ , Geralt.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Of course Jaskier needed to match - from the terrible triceratops to the brightly coloured pants. He suspected, once, that he might have found it annoying, or at least absurd, but now it just made him feel softly fond. _Too_ fond: too close to the dangerous feeling bubbling beneath the surface, the one that burnt and soothed in equal measure.

He tried to push that thought away, focusing instead on the soft lines of Jaskier’s body, the darkness of his eyes, the inviting way he wet his lips. He was about to return to the bed, keen to feel that body against his own, when Jaskier suddenly rose in a swift, lithe motion, edging towards where Geralt stood, shuffling across the duvet on his knees.

He grabbed at Geralt’s hands with a soft, playful look and guided him onto his back before roaming up his legs, towards the waistband of his trousers, his fingers squeezing. They danced over his cock, Jaskier’s eyebrows shooting up in feigned surprise when Geralt twitched beneath him.

“Can I…?”

Geralt nodded, wordlessly. It was all he needed to say - to hell with whatever he might have been asking to do: Geralt would have said yes to anything. Jaskier grinned, and in a quick movement he’d undone the button and fly of Geralt’s trousers and pulled them off. It was not, truthfully, particularly dignified - but Geralt didn’t care as Jaskier began to slowly climb him, straddling him, perching on his still-constrained cock with a soft little noise that was almost like a purr.

He leaned forwards, brushing his fingers against Geralt’s chest. The sensation was feather-light, but it was all Geralt could focus on, overwhelming his already burning mind, lighting him up. Jaskier was _teasing_ him, he realised - pushing him towards an edge in tiny, maddening steps.

A single one of Jaskier’s fingers danced across the tip of his cock. This time, he didn’t stop himself, thrusting against him. Jaskier pushed down harder, sliding forwards, and the sudden hot friction made Geralt swear, the sound breathless and rushed. Jaskier _laughed_ \- his own voice sounding a little choked - then reached down again, this time pressing the heel of his hand against Geralt’s prick, tugging at the waistband of his boxers with his fingertips.

Geralt couldn’t stand it. In a single, quick movement he pushed himself up, grabbed Jaskier around the waist and twisted them both, throwing Jaskier down onto the duvet and pinning him there.

There was just a moment - both a little winded, both panting - when Jaskier stared up at him, caged between his arms, his eyes wide. His pupils were huge and dark, his skin flushed, his hair a messy crown around his head, spread across the pillow. He’d lost that sure, cocky expression - the quirking half-smile that he’d teased him with in the museum.

He was gorgeous. He was gorgeous, and open, and for a brief moment Geralt could pretend he was his - could almost believe that his expression meant more than it really did: that it was love rather than eager anticipation.

But he couldn’t linger - couldn’t let himself be drawn along by those thoughts. Instead, he crashed his lips against Jaskier’s, letting himself in, feeling Jaskier surge beneath him. His mind was a tangle of thoughts, now too thoroughly tied together to unpick - _I want you,_ the kiss said. _I need you._

 _I love you_.

He pulled away, quickly, moving down - trailing more kisses down his neck, sucking briefly at his collarbone. Jaskier’s fingers dug into the sheets below so he did it again, just to hear him gasp.

He ghosted over a nipple, flicking at it with his tongue as Jaskier’s cock jutted against his stomach, ready and needy and _waiting._ He pressed his tongue into the warm divot of Jaskier’s hip bones, feeling him gasp beneath him, one hand gripping at the sheet and the other reaching up to tug through Geralt’s hair. He headed lower, Jaskier’s grip loosening to let him move, tonguing gently across the soft, hairy skin below his navel.

He was struck again with that fear - the _need_ to be good, to put his turbulent emotions to use. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, of course, and even he would admit that it had been a while - but he wasn’t thinking about technique or poise or purpose, too desperate to feel Jaskier beneath and between his lips.

He pressed his mouth to Jaskier’s prick, still hidden by the awful dinosaur pants. Jaskier sighed, and doing away with any more pretense or teasing, Geralt reached up and pulled his boxers off, letting him spring out.

Vaguely, he realised he should appreciate the sight of Jaskier naked and eager beneath him, should commit this to memory - something to torment him later. But there was no time - he didn’t want to wait any longer, and neither, judging by the sounds he was making, did Jaskier.

He moved his lips against Jaskier’s head with a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Jaskier swore, the sound a little muffed, and when he looked up, he saw that he had an arm slung across his face, his hand balled into a fist. He bent back down to repeat the movement, but was greeted instead by a mouthful of his own hair. He tossed his head, trying to grant himself easier access, before sitting up with a little huff.

The hair tie was still clinging around his wrist, and in a quick motion he swept his hair back, hurriedly tying it in a low ponytail then leaning back down. Before his mouth had even come close to touching Jaskier’s skin, he let out an amused sounding sigh.

“Gods,” Jaskier breathed, as Geralt peered up at him, “I’m never going to be able to see you with your hair up again without getting a semi.”

Geralt smiled but didn’t say anything, ducking back down, kissing him once more. He tried not to think too much on Jaskier’s words, tried not to cling to them: their implication that this could be something that might happen again.

He sighed along Jaskier’s shaft, his breath hot, then tongued the length of his prick. Jaskier shuddered again, and Geralt could feel himself burning up at the effect he was having on him. He hesitated a moment, wetting his lips, and in a swift, eager movement took Jaskier fully into his mouth, as deep as he dared, hungrily wanting as much of him as he could taste.

“Fuck, _Geralt_ …” Jaskier gasped, his body trembling.

Jaskier’s cock was in Geralt’s mouth. His _best friend’s_ cock was in his mouth, slick and salty. His best friend - his roommate - one of the only people in the world he could trust, implicitly - was writhing beneath him, moaning his name, eagerly digging his fingers into his scalp. He moved slowly, drawing him out, making him gasp - knowing that everything had changed.

Jaskier groaned, Geralt’s name escaping from his lips along with the long, lusty sigh. He thrust upwards, but Geralt was ready for him, moving in tandem. He focused on the noises Jaskier was making, the little sounds of pleasure, adjusting his position, finding the perfect angle. He couldn’t tell Jaskier he loved him - it was impossible - but like this, dragging him ever-closer to climax, he could _show_ him.

“Geralt—”

Was that a request, or another moan?

“Wait—”

He stilled instantly, releasing Jaskier’s cock with a wet little noise and looking up.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—” Jaskier was breathless, but grinning, his chest heaving. “You’re so far away.”

He reached out, and Geralt immediately knew what was wanted of him. He moved back up his body until Jaskier had grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer, pressing kisses to his jaw and lips.

“I thought you wanted…” Geralt managed, around the eager machinations of Jaskier’s lips.

“I want…” he kissed him again, his hand creeping down his body. “I want _you_.”

It was a whisper, barely-there, but it made Geralt’s heart stop, his stomach leap. Jaskier finally made its way to his cock, giving it another light squeeze before he began to tug at his boxers. Geralt realised what he was doing, sat back, and quickly pulled them away, feeling the thrill of the bare skin of Jaskier’s body pressed against him. Jaskier hummed, apparently pleased with himself, then reached between them, taking Geralt in his hand, stroking him slowly. Geralt sighed at the touch, his body melting, his insides softening like mist but his cock achingly hard.

They were awkwardly positioned, Jaskier sandwiched between Geralt and the bed, his arms at odd angles. Geralt moved a little closer, turning them both around so they were laying side by side, then reached forwards himself. Jaskier was still hard and wet, and holding him felt as natural as holding himself. He knew, somehow, exactly what to do, his thumb expertly sliding across the tip of Jaskier’s cock, even while he could feel himself slowly coming apart beneath him.

He’d thought about this for rather longer than he cared to admit - had _wanted_ Jaskier, in one way or another, for years. But even with all that imagining, that little voice had gnawed at him, the fear that crossing the boundary between _friendship_ and _fucking_ would somehow be strange, would feel unnatural or wrong.

But it didn’t feel wrong. It didn’t even feel _weird,_ like Jaskier had muttered back in the museum. It was _right_. Jaskier breathed against him, his skin slick, his body warm and close. And it felt like it was where he belonged. Geralt’s body was taut and excited, his core tingling, but beneath the waves of pleasure was something soft and warm and _safe_ : like coming home.

He tugged a little harder, a little faster, and Jaskier groaned against him, copying his pace, his free hand flush against his chest. He could feel his orgasm building within him, pressing down on him, hot and close. Jaskier bucked again and he moved his lips and tongue and teeth to his neck once more, nibbling, _sucking_ , listening as Jaskier’s breathing grew faster, feeling how he too was falling apart.

Geralt glanced down. He couldn’t resist, couldn’t _not_ see how his cock looked in Jaskier’s hand - another memory to bite at him, later.

As he did, he noticed exactly which hand was gripped so tightly around him.

The golden ring glinted in the dark space between their bodies.

It was nothing - and it was everything - enough to send him hurtling over the edge, spilling onto both of their bellies with Jaskier’s name on his lips. Jaskier followed quickly, his gasps petering out into a moan.

They lay there, for a moment, tangled in each other, saying nothing. They were both shiny with sweat, both regaining control of their breathing. Geralt could feel his heart stuttering in his chest, refusing to calm.

“We should…” Jaskier huffed, “do you have anything to, ah…”

Geralt gestured with his head. “Bedside table.”

Jaskier rolled over with a sad-sounding sigh and reached for the box of tissues that lived permanently next to Geralt’s bed. He began to clean them both off - Geralt first - and even his gentle wiping sent spasms across Geralt’s body, his skin too sensitive, too _fresh_. Geralt grabbed a handful of tissue too, and soon they were both reasonably clean.

Unwillingly, Geralt stood to throw the tissues in the bin beside the bed. As he did, he pushed open the window, letting in some of the cold night air before collapsing back down onto the mattress where Jaskier was sleepily gazing at him. He reached out for him automatically, and Jaskier allowed himself to be pulled into Geralt’s arms, his head pressed against his shoulder.

He shivered as a breeze blew in through the window.

The duvet had been kicked to the bottom of the bed, and without thinking Geralt grabbed it and pulled it up over them both. Jaskier opened his mouth, as if to speak - as if to complain, or refuse, or chastise him - but no words came out.

Geralt could snatch these few minutes of intimacy. The hazy, post-orgasm fog would soon lift, and Jaskier would leave. For now, he could enjoy having him so close.

But Jaskier’s inevitable departure didn’t seem to be happening. A full five minutes later, he peered down at him, ready for a stuttering apology and a hasty goodbye as Jaskier realised where he was.

His eyes were lightly shut, his mouth open, his chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths.

He’d fallen asleep, wrapped in Geralt’s arms. Geralt lay against the pillow, staring at him. And slowly, cautiously, he let his eyes drift shut too.

~

Geralt woke slowly, slipping from dreaming to wakefulness in that smooth way that left him not too sure what was real and what was imagined. His skin was still slick with sweat, cooled by the breeze fluttering in through the open window. There was a kind of pleasant ache in his arms, in his legs, nestling in the core of his stomach.

He’d stirred several times in the night - unusual for him - to find an arm slung casually across his chest, a leg tangled between his own. He knew Jaskier moved around a lot in his sleep, but he hadn’t been expecting the casual, intimate little touches throughout the night. Jaskier’s body was warm, pressed against his own, and comforting in a way he was trying not to linger on. Despite being woken up by his wriggling legs and flailing arms, Geralt felt like he’d properly _slept_ , the first good night’s sleep he’d had since they’d been caught by Vesemir in the restaurant.

Sleeping with Jaskier - in the most literal sense - had felt _right_. It was like the space on the other side of the bed had been waiting for him, like their bodies had been created to slot softly together. In the night, he’d woken and turned to see Jaskier only inches away, his face serene, his lips slightly parted. Even asleep - even drooling and snoring and twitching - there was something to him, something about the way the sliver of light from the moon and the streetlights outside illuminated him through the crack in the curtains.

Seeing him asleep and comfortable in Geralt’s bed had set a weight in his chest, tightening his ribcage, in a way that didn’t feel stifling or oppressive but full and warm and good.

It was still dark outside, and Geralt peered to the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was barely half past five - still time enough to sleep and enjoy Jaskier’s closeness without the inevitable awkwardness that would follow when they woke up properly. He rolled over, keeping his movements slow and quiet so as not to disturb him.

But the other side of the bed was empty.

It was like a crack, the tightness in his chest transforming into a vice, squeezing him, shattering something small and fragile beneath his sternum. It was far too early for Jaskier to have gotten up and begun his day, so he must have snuck away back into his room while Geralt slept, returning to his own bed.

That was fine, he told himself. It was reasonable. Of course Jaskier would leave: what had passed between them last night was nothing more than sex, just a single night, a single moment. It was destined not to last, and Jaskier had removed himself from the situation before they’d been forced to have a difficult conversation.

Geralt had known, when this had begun - even back in the museum, Jaskier squeezed between him and the wall, his hands catching in his shirt - that this wouldn’t last. For Jaskier, it had been fuelled entirely by lust, by _want_ , and nothing more. He couldn’t blame him for that: Geralt had readily accepted that a single night of passion would be followed by a morning of dwelling on things he could never have.

But that didn’t make it sting any less, didn’t seal up that crack across his chest. If anything, it made it deepen, made it gape. Perhaps he’d underestimated how much it would hurt, too blinded by the chance to hold Jaskier in his arms just once.

And it would be more than a single morning of this pain, either. He loved _hard_ , and he couldn’t guess how long it might take to stop hurting.

He twisted in the duvet onto his back, staring at the ceiling. He should go back to sleep, he knew: try to grab a few more hours of oblivion before being forced to get up and deal with this new, slightly altered reality.

But how could he sleep, now? How could he possibly slip away when his mind was racing and his mouth still tasted of Jaskier’s…

Of _Jaskier_.

His skin tingled, and he was alone.


	6. Chapter 6

The low, off-white glow of the shaving light above the bathroom mirror was all Jaskier could cope with right now, his eyes too sensitive for anything stronger. He stared at his reflection, hands braced to the cool porcelain of the sink, rivulets of water dripping down his face.

He wondered how he’d managed to work himself into this state. He’d crawled from Geralt’s bed and into the bathroom in a half-daze, sleepy and satiated, but a few moments alone away from the warm, cloying air of the bedroom had woken him to the reality of the position he now found himself in.

Because having _left_ Geralt’s bed, he’d need to decide if he would return. If he _could_ return. And that thought - the choice of what to do next - had mingled with the satisfaction of last night and the renewed intensity of his feelings to leave panic nipping at him, threatening to take hold. Splashing his face with water had done nothing to calm him: all it had achieved was yet another mess, waiting to be cleaned up.

He peered at himself in the mirror. The pale light made the bite marks on his neck and chest look darker than they really were, festooning his skin in red and purple stains. He dragged a single finger over one of them, wincing a little - it didn’t hurt, of course, but it made him shudder regardless.

Goosebumps erupted over his flesh. Jaskier sighed, breaking his own gaze, running his hands through his tangled hair. There was a flash in the mirror, and he paused for just a moment, fingers pressed to his scalp, before lowering his hands and stepping away from the glass, feet sticking to the cool, tiled floor.

He was naked, wearing only bruises and the ring.

It had been - gods - more than he’d dared for. More than he’d dreamed of. When he closed his eyes he could still see Geralt coming apart beneath him, could still hear his breathing, his panting moans. He didn’t even need to concentrate to feel Geralt’s lips still caught around his cock, his tongue hot and wet and urgent.

Of course Geralt had been good. _Of course_ he had. He was passionate and brilliant about everything else: why would sex be any different? Jaskier should have known from the way he spoke in the museum, from the careful care he put into all aspects of their lives, that he’d be just as attentive in the bedroom, typically brilliant.

The itch remained resolutely unscratched. Jaskier had hoped he would be satisfied, but now he just wanted more.

Could it happen again? And if it _did_ happen again - what would that make their relationship? Casual, perfunctory sex, a way for them to get off without all the entanglement of _dating_ and _searching_ and _chasing_? Just friends, still, despite the rest?

Jaskier wasn’t sure he could bear it. He didn’t want _just friends:_ he hadn’t wanted that for a long time. He wanted more. It was a selfish, grasping urge that left him feeling guilty and desperate: He wanted Geralt to be _his_. Before, he’d been ignoring it. Geralt _wasn’t_ his, and he had to try to let go of that single, burning wish. But after last night he couldn’t overlook it any more. It wasn’t even the sex, wasn’t the way Geralt had gasped his name, the way he’d carefully and attentively satisfied him.

It was the museum. It was an evening with Geralt’s family, the way he’d taken his arm - taken his hand. He wanted the soft intimacy of being together so much that it _hurt_.

But Geralt didn’t feel the same way: it was obvious that Geralt _wanted_ him, but not like that. He wanted his body and his hands and his lips - even if it would just be for one night - but not the rest.

Jaskier had rather bitterly memorised Geralt’s choice of romantic partners - both long-term and short - had weighed himself against them, and found himself wanting. He was _bright_ but he wasn’t clever, was too flippant, too silly, struggled to even hold down a _job_ , let alone anything else. He didn’t have that steely conviction that Yen did, all brilliant sharpness with - he’d been told, many times - a softer core beneath. He was just _soft_ , soft all the way through. He wasn’t as politically aware as Triss, not as patient as Regis - although he doubted anyone was.

And that was fine, obviously. It was _fine_. There were dozens of people out there - plenty more fish in the sea - people who _wanted_ someone like him. Jaskier wouldn’t change himself for anyone, even if that person was Geralt, and he didn’t go much in for moping and self-loathing, but he understood in that implicit, unspoken way that all the things he was were not the things Geralt wanted from a partner, a fucking _fiancé_. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault, wasn’t some hidden cruelty - it was just a fact.

Besides, Jaskier thought: he was _good_ at this. Very good. If Geralt only wanted their relationship to be roommates and shopping trips and friendship and - yes - sex, then he could give that to him. He wanted Geralt to feel good, and he was going to _make_ him feel good - make them _both_ feel good, even if, afterwards, he ran the risk of only furthering that ache in his chest.

There was another risk, though. One unimaginably worse than the fact that Geralt didn’t love him back.

What if this ruined everything? Last night he’d been too consumed with feeling, too lost in the chance to gain what he’d chased for so long, to think about the consequences beyond getting his heart thoroughly smashed. What if seeing Jaskier come undone beneath his hands, to have his cock in his _fucking_ mouth, was too much? He’d been so focused on Geralt’s touches that he hadn’t considered the much more likely ramifications of sleeping with him: that, after everything, they’d no longer be able to stand one another’s company without it being forced and awkward and - that word again - _weird_.

There was a chance - more than a chance - that tomorrow, forced to confront each other in the harsh daylight over coffee and soggy toast, that it would be too much. That the warmth of their shared space would mutate to something else: something _unpleasant_. Friendships had been ruined over less. There was a reason why people told you not to shag roommates, after all.

He’d need to leave, if that was the case. This was Geralt’s house - it was his name on the mortgage. If Geralt found it too awkward to be around him, if this was the beginning of the end, then he would have to find somewhere else to go.

The thought of being away from Geralt only added to the pain, making his stomach tighten in knots. He didn’t _want_ to leave. Even if every day was agony and every night was silent loneliness, he didn’t want to leave.

Last week, Geralt had told him he didn’t know what his life would be like without Jaskier in it. It had been a lie, of course: a well-worded line, part of their foolish game. But he understood, now, what he meant. He couldn’t imagine his life without Geralt. They were too entangled, too crucial to one another.

Or at least, Geralt was crucial to him. Was it the other way around, too? Would Geralt feel the ache of his absence as much as Jaskier would his? Or would he simply move on - would Jaskier be relegated to an occasional friend, an acquaintance, until - finally - nothing at all, just a memory?

If Geralt needed him to leave - to leave not just his bed, but his home and heart too - then he would. He could never make that choice himself, he just wasn't strong enough, but if it was demanded of him then he’d never fight back. He wouldn’t cause Geralt pain - even if that pain was only brought about by simply _existing_ beside him.

But he wasn’t gone _yet_. Hell, Geralt might even ignore the awkwardness, might invite him to share his bed again: there was no reason for Jaskier to assume that Geralt wouldn’t be interested in a repeat of last night.

There was a dull, constant ache that started in his core and rose, painful and prickling, to his chest, to the gap where his heart was supposed to be. He could feel it building, a wave of panic, the familiar feeling of being too trapped within his own head to think straight.

He breathed in and out, trying to focus, trying to count the seconds between inhales and exhales. Geralt was always on at him to—

He released the breath in a quick, hot gasp. It was _not_ a sob.

He knew, then, with iron certainty, that he should go back to his room. He should go back to his own bed, mess or no, crawl under the duvet and stay there: stay there until it stopped hurting.

_If_ it ever stopped hurting.

He took another steadying breath, trying to regain a semblance of control over his rapid heartbeat, the sickening feeling in his stomach. The pipes had stopped gurgling, now, so he pushed open the bathroom door, moving quietly and deliberately, stepping over the creaking floorboards in the hallway and standing at the threshold between their doors.

He hovered, for a moment. He could run, if he needed to - he could go back to his room and Geralt would never even need to know that he’d been trapped, immobile between two painful choices. To leave would be to wholly give up on whatever had passed between them last night, to turn his back on it. To stay would force him to actually _deal_ with it, when Geralt finally woke - but in exchange, he’d have just a few more moments by his side.

It would be two hours - maybe three, if Geralt turned out to be a heavy post-orgasm sleeper - to bask in the feeling of _being_ with Geralt before everything crumbled around him, if it _was_ to crumble.

When he thought about it like that - well. The choice was easy.

He pushed open Geralt’s door, leaning heavily against it to better control the swing, edging it along the carpet. It moved with a quiet _hiss_ , and he winced even at that low noise. He only opened it a crack, then darted into the room through the slim space between door and frame. He left the door open: Geralt was a light sleeper, and the _click_ of the door shutting could wake him, ruining everything.

Because, of course, he couldn’t catch Jaskier sneaking back in. _Staying_ in Geralt’s bed was fine - it would be natural to stay there till they woke, curled around each other in that warm, satisfied bliss until the sun came up. But leaving and coming back - _sneaking back in_ \- was far worse, somehow. If Geralt caught him now, tiptoeing around the bed, then he’d know that the thing that had passed between them was something _more_ , something more impassioned than simple sex.

If it hadn’t meant anything, then Jaskier would have left.

Geralt would ask him why he was back. If he _had_ decided that this would never happen again, he might even be annoyed and tell him to leave. He’d realise, with horrible finality, what Jaskier’s feelings _really_ were, leaving them both to deal with the fallout.

Part of him was shocked that Geralt hadn’t already worked it out. Priscilla had realised _years_ ago, and Lambert and Eskel certainly brought into the lie easily enough that they too must have realised at some point that he was quite terribly in love with their grumpy brother. Maybe Geralt had just never thought to look - too close to the whole thing to really see. Maybe he’d so firmly categorised Jaskier as his friend that to see him - or their relationship - as anything else would have been too absurd to even contemplate.

His back to the door, pressed in the corner of the room, Jaskier peered down to the bed where Geralt lay on his back, his hair spilling around the pillow. The curtains were open just a crack, and the light coming in from the streetlights outside illuminated his white hair like a crooked halo. Jaskier swallowed heavily. Geralt was asleep, his eyes lightly shut, his chest rising and falling in slow, gentle rhythm.

Where he’d moved in the bed - where Jaskier had moved beside him, too - the duvet had fallen away, revealing the smooth planes of his chest and shoulders, the curve of his arm slung up over his head. Jaskier felt his heart stutter, absurdly, his fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch him.

He had been foolish - stupid and ignorant and entirely _wrong_ \- to ever believe that allowing himself one night with Geralt would cure him of his feelings, would let him toss them aside. Now he knew what Geralt’s skin felt like, the ropes of his muscles under his hands, the crush of his lips against his own - not perfunctory or practical like it had been before, but real and hard and wanting.

He knew the noises made Geralt made when he came, and he would never - never in a million years - be able to forget them.

He tiptoed closer to the bed, avoiding the piles of hurriedly discarded clothes from the night before, including his own boxers, crumpled beside the bed. He pulled back the duvet, taking care not to disturb it too much, and slowly - glacially slowly, his heart thundering - slid back beneath it, lowering himself down onto the mattress. He realised, with another little sting in his chest, just how much he was interrogating every thought, overthinking every movement. He would be doing it for a while, he suspected, no matter what happened next.

The bed was still warm, the sheets soft and welcoming beneath his skin. It smelt of sweat and sex and Geralt - a wholly comforting smell, enveloping him as he slowly pulled the duvet over himself. He was grateful that Geralt wouldn’t be able to hear his heart: if he had, the drumming surely would have woken him by now.

He lay, just for a second, waiting to see if Geralt would stir. He didn’t: didn’t even shift to accommodate the sudden weight beside him, didn’t change his breathing, didn’t even twitch. He must have been deeply asleep to not even unconsciously notice Jaskier’s slow return.

If he was so deeply asleep… perhaps Jaskier could risk a little more. He shuffled closer, slowly moving towards him, searching out the heat of Geralt’s body. He hesitated again, watching and listening for a sign that he’d disturbed his friend, then carefully slid his arm over Geralt’s chest, pressing himself against him beneath Geralt’s raised arm, his cheek on his shoulder.

Gods, but he was warm. He felt so _good_ against Jaskier’s side, so _right_ , like he could lie beside him forever and never grow tired of the way their bodies fit. He closed his eyes and let his hand slowly creep up Geralt’s chest, up towards his neck, aware that he was virtually _clinging_ to him but failing to find the will to care - unable to stop himself.

He breathed out, feeling his frantic heart begin to calm.

And then Geralt moved. He shifted the arm that Jaskier was nestled beneath, moving it down, hooking it around Jaskier’s side and pulling him close. Jaskier’s breath caught, his eyes fluttering open. Perhaps he had a scrap of deniability, here: it wasn’t his returning to the room that had woken Geralt, but his sudden closeness. Jaskier could claim that he’d been asleep, or nearly asleep, and mindlessly clung to him while lost in a dream, like he had done so many times in the night.

“Ah—” he breathed, forcing himself to sound casual and sleepy. “Did I wake you up?”

Geralt tugged him even closer, making his heart stutter. “No.”

_Thank all the gods for that_. He was about to respond, but Geralt kept talking.

“Where did you go?”

Jaskier froze. _Shit_. “You…” his low voice cracked. “You were awake?”

“Only after you’d gone.”

He’d noticed. He’d woken to an empty bed, noticed Jaskier’s absence and had lain there, pretending to be asleep, while Jaskier had crept back in.

“Oh.” It was all he could manage, aware of how close he was to tumbling over a cliff edge.

“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” Geralt continued. “ _Your_ bed, I mean. You… you can. If you need to.”

Jaskier swallowed, looking up at his face. In the low light, it was impossible to read Geralt’s expression, but his voice had sounded unsure. He _would_ go back to his bed - if Geralt wanted him to. But that _uncertainty_ was too tempting, too dangerous. He had to know.

“Do _you_ need me to?”

There was a long, heavy silence. Jaskier was glad that he couldn’t see Geralt’s expression, now.

“...No,” he said, finally.

Jaskier’s chest squeezed. His heart fluttered against his ribcage, trying to escape. Geralt turned, twisting around till they were face to face, closing both his arms around Jaskier’s body.

“Jaskier…” his hand had made its way to the small of Jaskier’s back, resting there, fingers lightly twitching. Jaskier felt himself shudder, alert to every tiny move Geralt made. “In the museum, you asked me what I wanted. What do _you_ want?”

His ribs were going to explode, his heart was going to give out. He should say nothing. He should say nothing at all - keep his secrets trapped behind his teeth, keep them hidden in his hollowed-out chest and let them die there.

But he couldn’t. He _couldn’t_ , not with Geralt’s arms wrapped around him, not with the slow and quiet and somehow heartbreaking way he’d spoken.

“I want…” he hesitated, fingers twitching together between their bodies, heart thundering so loudly it might deafen him. “I want to wake up in your bed every day. Not because we’re having a phenomenal amount of sex, but because it’s the place where I _sleep_. I want to be _here_ …” He flexed his fingers, pressing them to Geralt’s chest, “for” — _forever—_ “for as long as you’ll have me.”

Geralt stilled. He didn’t even appear to be breathing, just _holding_ him, just waiting. _Fuck_. Jaskier knew, immediately, that he’d said too much: but it was a relief, too. Even if Geralt turned him away, even if he swiftly removed him from his bed and his home and his life, at least the truth was out there, now, horrible and ringing and real.

He couldn’t bear the silence, though. Geralt twitched, a little, as if he might be about to speak, but Jaskier got there first, rambling over whatever he’d been about to say, his voice quick and stuttering and growing too loud for this shared, close space.

“Why couldn’t you at least have the decency to be bad in bed, hmm?” He tried to make it a joke, tried to make it hurt less. “I’d hoped, stupidly, that maybe last night would get it out of my system. That I’d be _satisfied_ , and could leave it at that. Yet...” he stopped, and the truth caught up with him once more, like a wave drowning him. “Yet here I am.”

It was so quiet. Outside, a car hummed past. Geralt moved, finally, pulling his arm away. Jaskier’s stomach dropped, his heart a sudden, clenching stone in his chest, winding him. This was it. This was it.

Then - almost desperately - Geralt grabbed his hand, their fingers slotting together in the hot space between their bodies, pressed against their chests. Jaskier could feel Geralt’s heart pounding against his skin.

“Here _we_ are.” Geralt breathed, barely more than a whisper. “In the restaurant, you told me to pretend. To make something up. I didn’t. You _have_ changed my life. And I don’t want to imagine what it would be like without you.”

It was like he’d sucked the air from his lungs, like the room was spinning around him. “Geralt—”

“I love you,” Geralt spoke quickly, forcing the words out, his expression taught. “But—”

“But what?” Jaskier’s voice cracked. _I love you, but—_

Geralt’s face was set into a frown, a little grimace, unable to keep Jaskier’s gaze. He licked his lips, brows furrowed. Jaskier wished, desperately, that he’d just look at him - just _see_ him - so he could read him properly.

“But...” Geralt swallowed. “My life is… routine. With someone else you could have excitement. But with me it’s just… watching TV and going to Tesco and arguing over who has to unload the dishwasher.”

No. It was _absurd_. How could Geralt think that was enough - that any of that was a reason not to love him - not to _need_ him with the fierce, unfair intensity that he did? He couldn’t help it - he burst out a laugh, short and loud - and _then_ Geralt looked at him, his expression showing nothing but hurt.

“Geralt, no—” Jaskier squeezed his hand, feeling awful for laughing at Geralt’s earnestness. “Truthfully… once, _yeah_ , I wanted excitement. But I’m not twenty-one anymore! I _want_ going shopping and watching TV and getting in each other’s way in the kitchen, and I want it with _you_.”

“But—”

He cut him off. “But _nothing_. You’re a terrible grump and you’re stickler for details and you’re always moaning at me and _I love you_ , you stupid man.”

And then Geralt was kissing him. He crashed his lips against Jaskier’s, desperate and needy and awkward, their noses bumping, their hands sandwiched between them. Jaskier laughed against his mouth and kissed him back with equal feeling, unlinking their hands, wrapping his arms around him.

Jaskier was quickly losing count of all the ways he’d kissed and been kissed by Geralt, but this: this was different. Like removing a mask, dropping an act, allowing himself to feel him, honestly and openly. He didn’t need to pretend: didn’t need to pretend that it was fake, but also didn’t need to pretend that he _wasn’t_ in love, that everything that was happening was spurred on by appetite alone.

It was thrilling, the vice that had been constricting his chest finally giving way, his heart free. He breathed into Geralt’s mouth, laughing, like if he didn’t touch him he might die.

“I love you,” he said it again, against Geralt’s lips, “I love you,” against his jaw, “I love you,” his neck, his collar, his chest.

He whispered it to the palms of his hands, to his wrists, until Geralt tugged him back with desperation, locking their lips together, exploring his mouth with his tongue, nibbling on his lip. Jaskier arched against him, splaying his fingers over his chest, pressing himself as close as he could - lit up from the inside.

Eventually, Geralt pulled away, leaning his forehead against Jaskier’s, one of his hands pressed to his nape, staring into his eyes. So close, like this, it didn’t matter how dark it was: it was like Jaskier could really _see_ him, for the first time.

“Jaskier…” even Geralt’s voice made him shudder, “I love you.” He kissed him, brief yet tender. “I should have told you.”

Jaskier grinned. “And _I_ should have told _you_. It’s been _years_ , for fuck’s sake.”

He kissed him again, drunk on it, then stilled.

“Hold on…” A thought, sudden and a little scary, pinched at him. “Does this mean - Geralt - does this mean we’re _actually_ engaged? Because while I _do_ love you and everything, that might be a little - ah - soon?”

Or - or _was_ it too soon? If Geralt asked him, right now, if they both wanted it - would he say no? He wasn’t so sure that he would - if he even _could_. But this was so fresh and new and soft, full of potential fragility. He didn’t want to risk a future with Geralt by tying it down too soon.

“That is, ah…” he realised how insulting he sounded, too, as he rambled “I’m not saying _never_ , of course, just that maybe… maybe not right now, if that’s—”

Geralt cut off his chattering before he could wind himself up any further. “Jaskier.”

He finally stopped to breathe. “Yes?”

“It’s fine. You’re _right._ It’s probably too soon.”

_Probably_.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” He swallowed. “Probably.” He nestled closer to Geralt’s chest. “We might be awful together, anyway.”

He didn’t believe that, of course, and judging by the low laugh that rumbled up Geralt’s throat and the kiss he pressed to his forehead, neither did Geralt.

“Anyway,” he continued, blithely, “if we really _were_ engaged, I’d want a ring that I _didn’t_ buy from the market for a tenner, thank you very much.”

“Is that right?”

“This one is a little plain, I think. And it turns my finger green…”

“Hmm.”

Geralt reached for Jaskier’s hand, examining his fingers. He pulled off the ring, peering at the skin below. Jaskier felt somehow even more naked than before without it, like a final defence had been removed. But it wasn’t _real_ , it never had been. This tingling, fearsome thing between them now - Geralt’s muttered _I love yous_ \- that _was_.

Geralt turned, the ring in his hand.

“Wait,” Jaskier said, quickly. “Just… don’t lose it, okay? It’s… it’s important.”

If Geralt thought his request was unusual he certainly didn’t show it, simply placing the ring carefully onto his bedside table before turning back to him. He linked his hand into Jaskier’s again, squeezing.

“Has it _really_ been years?” He muttered, half sincere, half amused.

Jaskier frowned, mentally replaying their last conversation, then grinned, ruefully. “ _Years_ ,” he admitted, with a sigh. “I— hold on.”

“What?”

“What about _you?_ How long have you… have you felt like this? About me?”

Geralt ducked his head, and Jaskier could feel his fingers twitching. “A while,” he admitted, eventually.

“And how long is ‘a while’, exactly?”

Geralt shrugged. “Just… a while.”

Jaskier huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re terrible. You’re terrible and I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Urgh,” he kissed Geralt’s fingers where their hands were pressed together. “I _don’t_. You bastard. I can’t believe we didn’t figure this out sooner… Gods, everyone else fucking did.”

“Did they?”

“I mean… your family must have at least had an idea, considering how unsurprised they were… even _Ciri_ noticed. Priscilla twigged that I was in love with you _ages_ ago. Even fucking _Valdo_ knows… everyone but you.” He laughed. “Clearly I’m not as subtle as I thought. How didn’t you realise?”

It was a wholly rhetorical question - and he didn’t need an answer, not really - but Geralt looked away from him, peering at their hands. “I never thought you would… love me.”

It sounded like a struggle - a difficult, painful admission.

“Why?” Said Jaskier, aghast.

Geralt shuffled, a half-shrug against the bed. “I thought… it’s _you_. Why would…” he sighed, and Jaskier pressed closer, aware of how hard this must be for him - to spill his closely-guarded feelings. “I couldn’t see why you’d love me like that. Like _I_ love _you_. And…”

“ _And?_ ”

“What if I’d told you, and ruined it? It would have ruined our friendship, and you’d have gone. It was better to just... Leave it be, and keep you.”

It was such a soft confession that Jaskier felt his heart break a little, felt his stomach drop for the Geralt who’d spent so long believing that he wasn’t what Jaskier was looking for - wasn’t what he needed. It was a painfully familiar thought, too - one they’d both wallowed in.

Jaskier thought back to the previous night, to Geralt’s attentive, eager caresses, the way he’d touched him till he was trembling and insensible. And then he realised - quite all at once - why.

“You were telling me.”

“What?”

“Last night, I thought… I thought you were just, you know…” he shrugged, “exceptionally good in bed.” Geralt raised his eyebrows in a smug little half-smile. “And, of course, you _were_. You _are_. But… but that wasn’t it, was it? You were trying to make me feel good because… because...” He faltered.

“Because I love you.”

“I, well, _yes_ ,” even now, that made Jaskier stammer and blush, “but it’s more than that. You were… trying to show me how much you cared. Am I right?”

“I wanted to make you feel good. I wanted to…”

His skin was flushed and warm against Jaskier’s hands. He could feel his heartbeat quickening again - and more, lower, could feel Geralt’s cock twitch, already teased by their desperate kissing.

“You wanted to what?” Jaskier asked, voice low, edging closer till their lips drifted over each other.

Geralt edged just fractionally closer, and now Jaskier could feel more than just a twitch - more than the suggestion of arousal, the ghost of what had happened last night. He was hesitating, Jaskier realised, choosing his words carefully.

“I wanted you to know,” he said, slowly. “And… I wanted to be good enough for you.”

Jaskier felt his chest squeeze. Geralt sounded so _sad_ , so sincere. He couldn’t help but kiss him, cupping his jaw with one hand, pressing their mouths together.

“You’re _too_ good for me, if anything,” he whispered. “Far too good.”

“I—”

Jaskier could tell he was about to deny it, about to spout more humble nonsense, so he silenced him with another kiss, moving their lips together, hoping Geralt _knew_ how wrong he was.

“Anyway,” he said, pulling away. “What about _you_?”

“What _about_ me?”

“I want you…” Jaskier swallowed, thickly. “I want to make you feel good too, you know.”

Another quirked lip, half smile. “Did you not last night? Certainly felt very good.”

Jaskier batted at him with his fingertips. “You know what I mean. I didn’t even _realise_ that you spent all bloody night focusing on me and I didn’t spare a single moment for you…”

“You say that like it was a trial. I _wanted_ to focus on you.”

“But you didn’t _have_ to.” Jaskier was finding it hard to say, exactly, what he meant: the gap between them, the unfairness, the sudden realisation that Geralt had tried, in his own way, to tell him he was in love with him without having to say it

“I want to make you _feel good_ , Geralt,” he repeated, moving closer, keeping his voice deliberately low.

Geralt said nothing - but Jaskier could feel him moving beside him, feel his interest pressed into Jaskier’s hip. Tentatively, slower than the frantic kisses of before, Jaskier brushed his lips against Geralt’s, testing, _tasting_. He moved his hands, fluttering over Geralt’s side, down towards his hips. Geralt hummed into his mouth, and Jaskier pressed his thumb into the delicious curve of Geralt’s hip bone, the perfectly sculpted line where his leg met his stomach met his crotch.

“Will you let me?” He asked, finally.

Geralt looked back at him, his lips parted, and even in the early morning darkness Jaskier could see how wide his eyes were.

~

Still sensitive from the night before, those sparks still tingling beneath his skin, Geralt could only sigh into the crown of Jaskier’s head as he pressed hot, wet kisses against Geralt’s chest, tonguing at his neck. His body was responding eagerly to Jaskier’s movements, his prick already half-hard as Jaskier heaved his hands to his shoulders and pushed him onto his back, slinging one leg over his hips so he could straddle him where he lay against the sheet, lowering himself down so Geralt nestled in the cleft of his arse.

He kissed him again - mouth, jaw, chest - then leaned back, his hands slowly trailing down from Geralt’s shoulders to his hips, tracing little circles with his fingers to the soft skin below Geralt’s navel. He was still naked, but Geralt could only see the dark outline of his silhouette hovering above him. He reached up, placing a sturdy hand to either of Jaskier’s thighs, thick and warm beneath his palms.

“You should turn the light on,” Jaskier muttered, his hands moving tantalizingly close to Geralt’s crotch.

Geralt blinked up at him. “What?”

“I can’t see you in the dark. I _want_ to see you. You’ve got one of those fancy dimmable bulbs, don’t you?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, wondering just _how_ Jaskier knew that, but did as he was told, leaning over and switching the bedside lamp onto its lowest setting, filling the room with a muted orange glow. Jaskier was suddenly illuminated, the dim light softening his edges, casting blurred shadows across his face, his chest, the strong lines of his thighs. Trapped beneath him, Geralt could only gaze up, his breath caught somewhere below his ribs.

“That’s better,” Jaskier purred, “Now I can actually see you…”

In this light, Geralt could see Jaskier properly - his dishevelled hair, his cheeky, permanent grin. But he could also see the trail of dark bruises starting on his neck and sneaking downwards, across his collarbone, over his chest. He hesitated, then sat up, causing Jaskier to tip into his lap, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s shoulders so he wouldn’t tumble back onto the bed.

Geralt reached out to skim his fingertips over the largest bruise, Jaskier’s skin warm and soft.

Jaskier peered down, following his movements. “Oh, right,” he said, chuckling. “I’ve got that concealer still, and I’m _pretty_ sure there’s a turtleneck at the bottom of my wardrobe. I’ll cover them up before Ciri...” he spotted Geralt’s expression, trailing off. “What’s wrong? You’re not about to get all maudlin and say you hurt me, are you?”

Geralt swiped his finger back and forth across the blemish. That _had_ been his first thought, one that he’d quickly pushed aside, remembering the noises Jaskier had made when he’d trapped his skin beneath his teeth.

He surged forwards, folding his arms around Jaskier’s body and pressing his lips to the bruise, opening his mouth against it. This time, he didn’t nibble or suck or edge his teeth across Jaskier’s skin, but kissed it, softly and lazily. Jaskier made a little startled noise before sighing into the touch, relaxing against him, twisting his legs around his waist for better balance.

“It’s like…” Geralt growled against his neck, inhaling him, “Ah…”

He couldn’t finish that sentence. Couldn’t complete the thought that was so dangerously possessive. He didn’t need to, though, as Jaskier arched back, lips parted.

“Like I’m yours?” He breathed, looking down at him.

_That_ thought sent another shockwave through Geralt’s body, down his spine, and Jaskier grinned wolfishly at him as Geralt’s cock hardened even more.

“Well,” he drawled, moving his legs and manoeuvring Geralt back down onto the bed, “they’re a little more enduring than a ring, aren’t they? You can’t just take them off…” He leant above him, his expression thoughtful. “Although they _do_ fade… you’ll have to make sure you do something about that.”

Before Geralt could reply, Jaskier kissed him hard, huddling him against the bed. He let one hand press into the side of Geralt’s throat, sneaking beneath his head to dig his fingertips into the buzzed hair at Geralt’s nape, while the other inched down his body, the lightest graze against his ribcage, his stomach. Geralt’s skin lit up where he touched him, his core tightening, his heart thundering once more.

He stopped just short of actually grasping Geralt, of touching him where he _ached_ for relief. He moved his kisses to Geralt’s neck, nibbling at his ear, taking the soft flesh between his teeth with a little tug that made Geralt mutter out a bitten-off swear.

Finally Jaskier released him, edging backwards, sliding himself down his body, peppering it with small, fluttering kisses. Before his lips could reach Geralt’s cock, he leaned away, perching just above it once more, his hands pressed to Geralt’s stomach.

He paused there, above him, his expression hungry. Then at last wrapped his hand around Geralt’s cock, gently at first, then squeezing, rubbing his thumb across his head. Geralt arched into the touch, thrusting into Jaskier’s hand, desperate for more. His other hand moved from Geralt’s hip and down, sneaking between Geralt’s legs, cupping quickly against his balls and then - lower - edging between his cheeks, towards his entrance.

This - this had not been what Geralt was expecting. Jaskier must have noticed the way he stilled beneath his body, because he froze, the hand gripped to Geralt’s cock loosening a little.

“Don’t stop.”

The words slipped out before Geralt even knew what he was saying. He realised - with sudden certainty, with a sureness that made him gasp - how much he wanted to feel Jaskier inside him. How much he _needed_ it.

Jaskier seemed less certain, still reacting to the way Geralt had hesitated. “Are you sure? I should have asked, I just—”

“ _Please_.”

In the orange light, Geralt could see Jaskier’s expression shift - the worry morph into something hot and urgent. He smiled - slowly - and then began once more to stroke Geralt’s cock in long, languid strokes, shifting his fingers, teasing at his hole again. Geralt twitched against him, ready and eager, and Jaskier hummed with a little smirk.

He stroked his cock again, dragging him out, pressing harder with the tip of his finger. Geralt bucked against him, pushed down, wanting more. From his position on his back, staring up at Jaskier, Geralt could see Jaskier’s cock jutting up between them, too, feel it knocking against his stomach. He was about to reach out - to feel the hardness beneath his palm - when Jaskier stilled.

“Hold on,” He said, looking around. “Do you have, um, or shall I—”

_Oh_. Of course.

“Bottom drawer.” Geralt indicated with his head. Jaskier half-slid off of his lap, Geralt immediately missing his touch, then lowered himself off of the edge of the bed and reached for the drawer, his naked arse sticking in the air above Geralt’s legs. The sight alone was enough to make Geralt stiffen even more with an appreciative hum that Jaskier certainly noticed, giving his hips a cheeky wiggle. Geralt couldn’t resist - he reached up, grabbing, _cupping_.

Jaskier laughed - “Geralt, you _cad,_ ” - then swatted his hand away. “How can I find anything in this mess while you’re trying to distract me, hmm?”

Geralt satisfied himself with another quick squeeze before moving his hand away. Jaskier resumed his searching, pushing things aside, until—

He made a soft little gasp. “Oh, _Geralt._ ”

Geralt suddenly remembered what else was in the drawer. Shit. What if Jaskier didn’t - what if he thought— what if he was _expecting_ —

“I—”

“Now, tell me,” Jaskier arched back, a pair of black leather cuffs dangling from one hand, “are these for _you_ , or for....” he hesitated. “...for your partner?”

Even watching Jaskier fiddle with the cuffs, running his fingers over the soft fabric lining, made Geralt's cock throb. He imagined being pinned beneath Jaskier, bound and begging, or Jaskier beneath him, arms up, wriggling and eager.

“Depends," he managed, voice low.

“On?”

“Lots of things.”

"How intriguing,” Jaskier grinned. “Perhaps… next time, then.” He casually let the cuffs fall back into the drawer, before pausing, looking smug. “Oh, I’m allowed to say that now, aren’t I?”

“Say what?”

“Next time. Before, I was so sure…” he nibbled at the inside of his lip, then grinned again. “Anyway. _Next time_.”

He leant back over, returning to his rummaging. Geralt wasn't too sure what he was finding in there - although he could make a reliable guess. Judging by the excited little noises Jaskier was making, Geralt’s concern that Jaskier was about to judge him was completely unfounded.

Finally, he pulled back, the shiny wrapper of a condom in one hand and a little bottle of lube in the other. He examined the lube with an apparent expert eye.

“This is the good stuff,” he said, eyebrows raised. “I wasn’t aware you were a connoisseur, Geralt.”

Geralt shrugged, watching as Jaskier positioned himself above him. Jaskier appeared to be watching him as carefully as he was watching Jaskier, as if worried that at any moment he could change his mind, like it all might disappear. That was certainly how it _felt_ : like it was too good to be true, like it could be a dream, and at any moment he could wake and would be alone, again.

But the pressure of Jaskier’s arse against his prick was real enough, the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on his chest was real, the tingle of where his lips had brushed at his neck. Jaskier placed both condom and lube to one side, slowly crawling back up Geralt’s body, his eyes hungry. He kissed him again, and Geralt couldn’t resist - sliding his hand between their bodies until his fingers brushed against Jaskier’s rigid cock, wrapping his fingers around the shaft, tugging.

Jaskier gasped into his mouth, so he did it again - adding a little twist, another tug. He was hotly hard, and Geralt could feel a sheen of pre-come coating his tip. He rubbed his palm against that spot and Jaskier groaned again, then finally pulled back.

He leant away, scrambling for the condom and fiddling with the shiny wrapper. Geralt could only watch as he pulled it out, slipping it over his cock and tossing the spent foil to the floor. Next, he took the lube, popping off the cap with a dextrous flick and dripping it across his cock, across his hand, squeezing it between his fingers.

Geralt watched, enraptured, hyper-aware of Jaskier perched above him, of what he was intending to do next. He slid his slick hand between Geralt’s legs, and Geralt jerked instinctively as he touched him, his finger edging at his hole.

And then, finally, _slowly_ , he pushed in. Geralt released a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding, relaxing his body, arching back against the bed. It was full and tight but not enough - and Jaskier seemed to read his thoughts, slipping a second finger inside him without needing to be asked.

Geralt sighed, and Jaskier grinned. “That’s it,” he breathed, “Gods, Geralt… is that okay?”

In lieu of responding, Geralt pushed down against him. Jaskier moved a little quicker, and Geralt could feel him quirk his fingers - finding the sweet, heady spot inside him that made him feel like he was lighting up - like he was tumbling.

“Can I—” Jaskier started, one hand pressing against Geralt’s hip and the other squeezed beneath him, “Do you—”

“ _Yes_.”

Jaskier slowly pulled away his fingers, leaning back, swiping the remaining lube across his cock before reaching down, pulling up Geralt’s legs, kneeling beneath his arse and positioning Geralt’s legs across his thighs. He stroked himself once, twice, then positioned himself against him, poised there - waiting - his hands cupped beneath Geralt’s arse.

Geralt could feel the tip of his cock, slick and hard, pressed against him. Then, slowly, he pushed - easing in with a long, low sigh. Geralt could feel the edge of that familiar burn, but the slight pain was nothing compared to the exhilarating sense of fullness, broiling in his core, filling him. Once he was inside him, Jaskier stilled, pushed to the hilt - and they paused together for a moment, breathing one another in.

The feeling was intoxicating - but Geralt wanted more.

At last, well aware of how much he was teasing him, Jaskier began to thrust, the burn morphing into just a heady fullness, tight and deep - deeper than Geralt had even considered possible, making him grip his hands into the sheet below. Jaskier moved back and forth, building it, starting with deliberate, slow thrusts that quickly turned sharp and immediate.

Now he’d adopted a steady rhythm, Jaskier reached for Geralt’s prick, taking it in a firm grasp. Geralt moaned, aware he was being loud - and not being able to care. He squeezed his eyes shut with a gasp as he pushed back against Jaskier’s hips, moving in tandem with him.

“Gods,” Jaskier muttered, “You’re beautiful, Geralt. You feel so good—” He groaned, squeezing harder, moving faster, “ _so_ good.”

Geralt couldn’t respond, his breath catching - his lungs full and burning. Jaskier continued to talk, muttering soft, choking praise.

“Listen to you,” he said, “you’re so… you’re marvellous, Geralt, _brilliant_ —”

It was all too much - Geralt wasn’t sure he’d ever been complimented like this before, and in other circumstances he would have told Jaskier to fuck off. But he couldn’t, now, and with Jaskier buried within him and his mind only able to focus on that enveloping feeling, he was forced to accept that it was true, that Jaskier meant every bit of foolish flattery.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he breathed, his name hot and sticky on his tongue.

Jaskier huffed a short laugh - a breathy exhale. “ _Yes_ ,” he mumbled, “Geralt, say it...” he swallowed, “Say it again.”

“Ah - _fuck_ ,” Geralt panted, feeling that warm, familiar ache building in his core, threatening to spill over. Jaskier clearly liked hearing his own name like this, racing before a climax. A cheeky impulse grabbed at him. “ _Julian…”_

Jaskier froze on the thrust, buried inside Geralt, his hands pressed hotly into the backs of Geralt’s thighs. Geralt laughed - he couldn’t help it.

“I can still—” Jaskier chuckled, the words strained, “I can still _leave_ , you know. Take it all back.”

The sensation of Jaskier laughing at him - at the cheeky use of his discarded, thrown-off name - sent vibrations rushing from the point where their bodies met all the way through Geralt’s core in a torrid wave.

“No you won’t,” he said, goading him, clenching around him and making him gasp.

Jaskier stuttered again - possibly a swear - before resuming the rhythm. He was steady and sure and powerful in a way that Geralt hadn’t seen him before - it was devastating. Having Jaskier over him, like this, having him _inside_ him, was new and wild and somehow safe, somehow comforting, like through the careful touch of his fingers and the confident movements of his hips and cock he was holding him close - showing him how loved he was.

“Fuck,” he muttered, feeling himself drawing closer, “ _fuck.”_

Jaskier showed no sign of slowing, tugging at Geralt’s cock with one hand while the other supported the curve of his arse, keeping him steady on top of his knees. He matched his pace - the stroking of his hand to the steady thrusting of his hips - and Geralt could feel himself falling to pieces, all of the sensation in his body coiling and building and concentrating to a single, burning point. Jaskier’s mumbled affirmations drifted over him, soft and constant, burying him.

“Ah—” Jaskier breathed, squeezing him harder, fingers slipping, “ _Yes_ , Geralt, you’re so good, _so_ good—”

It was too much, all too much. It was like a dam had burst inside him, years of silent longing building up and over, drowning him, carrying him along.

“I love you,” he mumbled, the words raw and panted. “ _Julek, I love you_ —”

And that was it, that was all he could take, his whole body shuddering as he spilled into Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier hissed through his teeth, managing two more thrusts before he, too, came with a hot gasp and a long, broken sigh. He kept his hand on Geralt’s cock, easing him out of the orgasm, and they stilled, for a moment, neither of them moving. Geralt’s heart was thundering, his ears ringing, his skin tingling all over in a sheen of cooling sweat.

Slowly, Jaskier drew out with another soft hiss before letting himself fall heavily on the bed next to Geralt, letting out a deep, contented breath. He swallowed heavily, Geralt watching the movement of his throat, still peppered with bruises.

“Hmm,” Jaskier peered at him, his eyes heavily lidded. “Well, then.”

“Well then,” Geralt agreed, quietly.

“I love you too,” he mumbled. “I’m not sure I quite managed to say it back, just now.”

Jaskier shuffled forwards and kissed him drowsily with another one of those satisfied hums, then with a pained groan he sat up, reaching once more for the box of tissues. When he finally deemed himself suitable, he crawled back into the bed, back into Geralt’s waiting arms.

Geralt held him there, feeling his heart beating quick against his chest, his breathing slowly calming. They lay tangled in each other and Geralt wondered - not for the first time - how this had happened. Yesterday, it would have seemed impossible.

After a few minutes, Jaskier let out a sigh that skittered across Geralt’s chest, and finally spoke.

“We’re going to have to tell your family, you know.”

“I know.”

“And we need to tell them the truth, this time, alright? I don’t want you telling them we’ve just, I don’t know, decided _not_ to get married but are still together. You have to tell them _everything_.”

Geralt kissed the top of his head. “Everything?”

“Well,” Jaskier wiggled his shoulders, brushing his hand in little circles across Geralt’s chest. “Not _quite_ everything.”

“They’re going to think we’re idiots.”

“We _are_ idiots,” said Jaskier. “What about Ciri? Are you going to tell her tomorrow, or phone her, or what?”

Geralt considered this. “I want to tell her in person,” he said, “although I don’t think she’ll be surprised.”

“I… yeah,” Jaskier slumped against him a little. “I still feel bad about that.”

“Don’t. I think she’s probably been expecting this for a while…”

“What about Yen?”

“Well, I was thinking _you_ could—”

“Oh no, no way.”

Geralt chuckled. “I’ll ring her later. And we can tell Ciri together?”

“Deal.” Jaskier paused, for a second, his hand still. “Are you _sure_ you want to tell everyone? I just… I don’t want to force you if you don’t want everyone knowing about…”

“About us?”

“Not _us_ , really, just… I know you keep things to yourself, sometimes. I don’t want to make you do something you’re not ready for.”

Geralt hesitated. He couldn’t imagine a world in which he’d want to keep this hidden. They spent most of their time alone, of course, aside for Ciri - but he didn’t want to pretend, anymore. He didn’t want to stop himself from pulling Jaskier close, from holding his hand, from kissing him whenever he wanted to.

“No,” he said, finally. “I want them to know.”

“Good,” Jaskier said. “I don’t think I can keep up with any more pretending.”

“Hmm.” Geralt relaxed against him, basking in how warm he was, how soft. And then he remembered. "Where did you go?"

Jaskier looked up at him. "I'm right here?"

"Earlier. When I woke up and you'd gone. Where did you go?"

Absurdly, Jaskier began to _blush_. He'd had his prick _inside_ Geralt not ten minutes ago but _now_ he was blushing.

"I ah…" he hesitated. "I needed a piss."

Geralt laughed - he couldn't help it. Jaskier scowled at him, the blush deepening.

"Next time I'll just piss in your bed, then, shall I?"

Geralt rolled his eyes at him. At both of them, really: he'd woken alone, convinced that Jaskier had left him unloved and alone, when really he'd just been emptying his bladder.

Fucking typical.

"Please don't."

Jaskier moved up the bed so their heads rested against the same pillow, then nuzzled against Geralt’s cheek in what appeared to be an attempt at a half-hearted kiss. “What’s the time?” He said, his words muffled.

Geralt turned to look at the alarm clock as best he could without dislodging Jaskier. “Nearly quarter past six. Don’t you have work?”

“I booked it off,” Jaskier sniffed, “I’d assumed I’d be getting utterly _smashed_ last night, and I’d either be too hungover or terribly broken-hearted and distraught this morning to go in. What about you?”

“Booked it off weeks ago.”

“Excellent,” Jaskier shut his eyes. “That means I can do this for a couple more hours, at least…”

Jaskier yawned, and Geralt pulled the covers up a little higher, to better cover them both. Usually he would get up if he’d woken this early, even on a day off, but with Jaskier plastered to his side he didn’t quite feel the need.

“So,” Jaskier hooked a leg between Geralt’s, sliding his arm across his chest. “What did you have planned for the day? I’m assuming it wasn’t, you know…” he kissed him again, “... this.”

“Surprisingly not,” Geralt muttered. He hadn’t really planned _what_ to do with his day. He suspected that, rather like Jaskier, he’d assumed that the day would be lost to the emotional hangover of the night before - that he’d spend the day quietly mourning what he’d never had.

He didn’t have to, now.

“Is there anything _you_ want to do?” He asked instead, leaning his head against Jaskier’s on the pillow.

“I need a shower,” he sniffed. “I _really_ need a shower.”

“We both need a shower.”

“Or a bath….” Jaskier paused, thoughtfully. “Is the bath big enough for two?”

Geralt shrugged. “For _us_? I doubt it.”

“Hmm,” he sighed. “Shame.”

“We need to tidy before Ciri comes tomorrow, too. The kitchen’s a mess.”

“Urgh.”

“And we need to do a shop.”

Jaskier grumbled. “A big shop?”

“Unfortunately. Food, toiletries… we need toothpaste. Bin bags, bleach...”

Jaskier groused again, twisting beneath the duvet so he was facing the ceiling. “Maybe I was wrong about not wanting excitement anymore…”

“What if I buy you a bottle of wine?”

“Interesting proposition…” he said. “Call it a bottle of wine and a cake, and you’ve got a deal.”

Geralt peered towards Jaskier from the corner of his eye, watching him. That little fear bit at him again - the worry that all this wouldn’t be _enough_ for him - but he pushed it back. There was an ache in his chest, his legs, in his core - a comfortable throb. If Jaskier didn’t want this, he knew, he wouldn’t even _be_ there: he’d have left hours ago.

Jaskier sniffed. Geralt stared at him - his messy hair, his sparkling eyes, the trail of marks on his neck that disappeared below the soft cover of the duvet. Later, they’d wash away the sweat of last night’s - and this morning’s - adventures, but those marks would remain. So would, he suspected, the little green stain around Jaskier’s finger: at least for a day or so.

As if feeling his gaze, Jaskier turned, eyebrows raised.

“You’ve got that face on,” he said. “What’re you thinking about?”

He was thinking about last night. He was thinking about that morning - Jaskier’s lazy kisses, his urgent thrusts. He thought how later, washed and dressed and irrevocably changed, they’d go to Tesco and buy potatoes and washing up liquid and pasta like the world hadn’t suddenly started spinning in a different direction, taking both of them with it.

He licked his lips and shuffled forwards, pressing their foreheads together.

“You.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!
> 
> Well, sort of. Because Chapter 7 is an epilogue. I'll see you on the other side! 💖
> 
> As ever, if you want to see my updates or general weirdness, you can come say hi on tumblr, [here!](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/)


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings: just lots and lots of fluff.

Jaskier slid across the expensive hardwood floor in his white socks, moving only vaguely in time with the song playing from the speaker. He’d hoped that the music would ease his nerves a little, maybe distract him, but the reality was that it was doing very little to help. His movements were less of a _dance_ and more of a nervous jiggling.

It was some old playlist he’d made back when he’d spent most of his time moping and feeling sorry for himself, steadfastly trudging alongside the one thing he thought he could never have.

A lot had changed since then.

One song ended and another began with a tuneful, simple little melody. The Beach Boys, he thought - although it had been over a year since he’d updated the playlist, and had forgotten most of what was on it.

He grabbed the freshly pressed white shirt from the hanger dangling from the wardrobe door and slid it on. It had been _outrageously_ expensive, and the fabric was soft against his skin. He’d never wear something this nice again, he suspected. He fiddled nervously with the tiny, pearlescent buttons, trying to get the bloody thing fastened properly, willing his heart to stop thundering in his ears.

He left the top button undone - he _had_ a tie, but he was refusing to put it on until it was absolutely necessary - then reached down to the wide vanity table and grabbed the old, gold ring on its sparkling silver chain and looped it over his neck.

He’d found a chain for the ring buried at the bottom of one of his drawers the morning he’d dragged himself from Geralt’s bed just over a year ago, and while the chain had been replaced a few times - most recently as a birthday present from Geralt himself - the ring had stayed steadfastly the same. He’d worn it every day since that morning, and today would be no different, although It looked a little out of place against the expensive white suit.

Finally, he turned to look at himself in the enormous gilt-framed mirror. He didn’t quite look the picture of a perfect groom yet, with his mussed hair and the white shirt haphazardly untucked from his pale blue trousers. One of his socks, he noticed, had a hole in it.

But it was fine. _He_ was fine. He had a little more time yet to make sure he was _suitable_. He usually wasn’t so hesitant with this sort of thing, especially considering that the outfit had been picked out weeks ago, but something was holding him back.

He was nervous, and he couldn’t place why. He didn’t _need_ to be nervous, he knew, but there was still a churning in his stomach and a fluttering in his chest.

He reached up and began to fiddle with the ring, a habit he’d fallen into whenever he was worried - or when he was thinking, or when he was bored, or when he was excited. He never left it alone, in fact. It was thoroughly burnished now - as any piece of jewellery purchased from the market for ten pounds (haggled down from fifteen) would be - turned dull by wear and the oils from his fingers.

Reluctantly, he tucked the ring down the front of his shirt. It nestled against his chest, the light weight of it comforting and familiar.

The ring that Jaskier was now wearing on his finger was significantly nicer, he was forced to admit. It, too, was gold - but it didn’t turn his skin green. He kept thinking of it as the _new_ ring, although that strictly speaking wasn’t true: it was older than he was by a hundred years, give or take. The single, starbursting stone glimmered in the centre of the band, and he rubbed against the metal with his thumb - another little habit he’d picked up since they’d gotten engaged.

It felt like it had been no time at all. Truthfully, it _wasn’t_ : last Tuesday had marked six months since the opening of the _Creatures of the Deep_ exhibition at the museum, since Jaskier had turned away from Roach (Roach the _Leptocleidus_ , whose real name Jaskier had painstakingly memorised) in her new glass case in the centre of her very own room to find Geralt down on one knee behind him, the sparkling antique ring in one hand.

Only six months since he, too overwhelmed to say anything, had reached into his own coat pocket and pulled out the ring that he’d hidden in there that afternoon - a far more practical band made of real dinosaur bone and shimmering mother of pearl - nearly dropping it from his shaking hands. Then they’d _both_ been unable to speak - only crashing together in a rough, emotional embrace, much to both Lambert and Eskel’s amusement.

Geralt’s brothers had known, of course, what was about to happen: Geralt had arranged with Eskel weeks ago to keep people out of the room, and Jaskier had been planning with Lambert for a few days to make sure they were the first ones let into the exhibition.

And now it was happening - it was _actually_ happening. Waiting around for an arbitrary couple of years had seemed unnecessary: ever since that first night it had been, like Jaskier had suggested so long ago, exactly how it always was. Nothing had changed - not _really_.

Well. Not _nothing_. Jaskier could still feel the tingling touch of Geralt’s hands around his waist from the previous night, the intense press of Geralt’s body against his own, even though they’d only be spending less than twelve hours apart, if that.

But the rest had stayed the same. The shopping, the bickering in the kitchen, falling asleep against each other on the sofa, now all peppered with soft touches and lingering kisses and linked hands. There was no reason for them _not_ to just go ahead and make it officially official.

They'd considered, at first, doing the whole thing in the museum itself. But time and money and - more importantly - the fact that there was a waiting list over two years long had rather put them off the idea.

A cool breeze blew in through the open window, fanning the light curtains, bringing with it the distinct smell of salt. Distantly, Jaskier could hear the waves crashing on the beach below. It was a good spot, and while the museum had been a sweet idea, he could never resist the call of the coast. Geralt, he suspected, would have gone along with whatever he suggested, so long as they were married by the end of it.

He began to fiddle with the cuffs of his shirt, attempting to one-handedly fasten the tiny buttons, when the door opened.

“I’ve just had a look downstairs,” said Priscilla, her blonde hair frizzing around her head, “And it all seems— What are you _doing?_ ”

He paused, turning to look at her. “Getting dressed?”

“You’re a _mess_.” She bustled over, her blue gown rustling, shaking her head. “Hand.”

Jaskier wordlessly held out his hands, and she started to button his cuffs with a little roll of her eyes.

“Your buttons are crooked, too,” she said, nodding with her head.

Jaskier glanced down - she was right, he realised. His shirt was uneven at the top, the buttons and the buttonholes not quite lining up. She finally moved away, and he got to the job of re-doing the shirt, his stomach doing little flips.

“Are you okay, Jask?”

“Ahh…” he carefully watched his reflection as he redid the buttons. “Just… nervous.”

“...because? I doubt he’s going to jilt you, somehow.”

He frowned at himself in the glass. “What if I fuck it up?”

She snorted at him. “How?”

“Have you _met_ me, Priss? There’s an infinite number of ways I could mess this up before I even get downstairs.”

“Oh you’ll be _fine_. I’ve not seen you this nervous since…” she paused, thoughtfully. “Since ever, actually. Gods, you’re a soppy thing aren’t you?”

Jaskier scowled at her, although there was no malice behind it. “Oh, shut up.”

His shirt _finally_ presentable, he pulled on the rest of the ensemble - a light blue waistcoat and jacket - then slung the tie around his neck. He and Geralt had, probably foolishly, decided that they’d both be attempting one of those stylishly fancy knots that had been so popular in all their bloody wedding magazines. Thus far, neither of them had managed to get it right even once.

They’d _tried_ , a few nights ago. They really had. But they’d gotten distracted, and…

The thought made him flush.

He fiddled with the silk fabric, tying and re-tying it, feeling himself growing increasingly frustrated. It wasn’t happening - whether it was the slippery fabric or the complexity of the knot or his own shaking fingers, the apparently easy task felt suddenly impossible.

With a huff, he tied it in a standard, boring knot then turned to look at himself in the mirror. He _did_ look good - even without that final flourish. Finally pulling the outfit together went some way to making him feel more prepared for what was to come.

He was tugging on his shoes - brand new boots, which he’d insisted on - when the door opened again. Yen swept in looking beautiful - as ever - in a floor length, deep purple dress. He stood and walked towards her, catching Priscilla’s expression from the corner of his eye. She was blushing, quickly turning away - pretending to organise something on the vanity table.

“Fuck’s sake, Yen,” he grinned. “Here to outshine me on my own wedding day? Cruel.”

She smiled. “At least I didn’t wear black.”

“You _could_ have done, you know,” he said, “neither of us would have cared.”

“It’s not _you_ I’m worried about. People would talk. Turning up to your ex’s wedding wearing black is never a good look.”

“On you? I suspect it would have been a rather marvellous look. You could have worn one of those enormous hats with a lace veil and everything…”

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time, shall I?”

“Only if we can match.”

“We can sit at the back and bitch.” Yen smiled again, then pulled him into a tight hug. “Are you okay?”

“I’m wonderful!”

“Because you look like you’re about to be sick.”

“I can be wonderful _and_ extremely fucking nervous, you know.”

“You’ll be fine,” Yen said, waving a dismissive hand at him.

Jaskier straightened his lapels, fidgeting with the already perfect fabric. “I bloody well hope so.”

She gave him another one of those expressions - that said, succinctly: _oh do shut up_ \- and squeezed his arm.

“Just remember, Jaskier…” She began, sincerely.

This was… unusual. “Yes?”

“If you _are_ going to be sick, please do it to the side. If you get it on my dress, I’ll kill you.”

Jaskier burst out laughing. Yen gave him a smug smirk.

“There,” she said, “All better. Now, I’ve got to go and see where my daughter and her awful mutt have gotten to, _and_ see if I can find Geralt, too...”

“Last attempt to win him back?”

“ _Hah_ ,” Yen laughed, “Please, keep him.” She smoothed out her dress, despite the fact it was perfectly uncreased. “See you later, Jaskier." She turned to leave, then paused in the doorway. “See you downstairs, Priss.”

Priss turned _scarlet_ , but Yen was gone before she could even respond, leaving the door ajar behind her. When Jaskier turned around, Priss had her back to him, fiddling with her hair in the mirror.

“Priss.”

She ignored him.

“ _Priscilla._ ”

“....yes?”

“You _are_ aware that seducing the ex of one of the grooms at a wedding might be a _little_ distasteful, yes?” She started to mumble something - probably an apology - but Jaskier spoke over her. “Which means you have my full and enthusiastic permission to do it. Just save it till after the first dance, alright?”

“Oh, shush,” said Priss, self-consciously combing through her hair. “It is _definitely_ not going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Jaskier, have you _seen_ her? There’s no _way_ I’ve got a chance with someone that unreasonably attractive…”

“Talking about me again?”

They both turned at the sudden, gruff voice, Priss finally moving away from the mirror. Lambert was leaning through the doorway, grinning. He was wearing a dark blue suit, his hair combed neatly, for once, eyebrows raised.

“I’ve been sent to tell you you’ve got ten minutes,” he said, striding into the room. “More like seven, actually, considering how far this fucking room is from the reception.”

“Thanks, Lambert.”

“You ready to go? Or do you want me to go down and tell ‘em you’re still, I dunno, doing your hair?”

Jaskier started to worry at the engagement ring again, unconsciously. Technically… he _was_ ready.

“Nope,” he said, his voice a fraction too high. “All ready to go.”

Priss stepped forwards, grabbing his hand, forcing him to stop his fiddling. “You’re _sure_ you wanna go down alone?”

And then - he _was_ sure. “I won’t be alone,” he said, feeling more confident than he had done all morning. “Go make sure the music’s set up, okay?”

She squeezed his hand. “Okay.”

“Come on, Priss,” said Lambert, impatiently. “We gotta get going, make sure everyone’s behaving before it all kicks off. And I’ve left Aiden down there on his own. I don’t want to have to save him from some dowager aunty.”

Jaskier grinned. “That’s what you get for bringing such a _nice young man_ to a wedding. They’re all waiting to snatch him up.”

“They’ll have to get through me first.”

“Lambert, I love you, but I’d _really_ appreciate it if you _didn’t_ throw someone’s aunt through a table, okay?”

“I can make _zero_ promises.” Lambert extended his arm to Priscilla. “M’lady?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, taking his arm anyway. “See you down there, Jask.”

“See you in a bit.”

They left, closing the door behind them. The clock on the wall was ticking too-loud, counting down the minutes - the seconds. Jaskier took another look at himself in the mirror, straightening the tie, rearranging his fringe for the umpeenth time. Suit, shoes, ring - two of them. Priscilla had the third - that was her _job_ , after all: one of the only ones she had considering how unusual their entry was going to be.

“Right,” he said to the air. “Right.”

~

The suit, Geralt was forced to admit, wasn’t bad. Practically, he knew that this was probably the result of spending what he thought was an exorbitant amount of money on an item of clothing. But that didn’t feel quite right.

It was because he _wanted_ to wear it, for once. Jaskier had asked - several times, in fact - if he was happy with the get-up, clearly nervous that he was forcing Geralt into something he wasn’t comfortable with. Geralt had told him again and again that he _wanted_ to wear the suit, waistcoat and tie and all, but he suspected Jaskier didn’t believe him.

Jaskier was so bright and beautiful that standing beside him in _anything_ else would have been borderline obscene. And - somehow - the tailored suit _did_ look good. It framed his silhouette nicely, and the dark navy fabric made his eyes, already an unusually light colour, pop even more. It felt odd to be wearing something that wasn’t black or grey, but he couldn’t deny that it suited him.

The man that was staring back at him in the large mirror looked - well, he looked like a man on the brink of his wedding, which was true.

“You’re still going in together?” Eskel asked, pulling on his own jacket behind him. “Not very traditional.”

“Since when have I been traditional? I’m too old to be given away. And anyway, with his family…” Geralt shook his head. “It wouldn’t feel right. Or fair.” He turned away from the mirror, and Eskel was, for once, smiling at him. “We’re doing this like we’ve done _everything_ for the past ten years. Together.”

“You’ve gone soft,” Eskel teased.

Geralt shrugged. “I went soft years ago.”

“Tell me about it,” said Eskel, tugging at the jacket sleeves in an attempt to make them even, “It’s a fucking _nightmare_." He stopped fussing, then turned a critical gaze on Geralt. "You're crooked."

"What?"

"Your tie," he said. "It's wrong."

With a sigh, Geralt tugged off the tie and began again. The frustrating bit of fabric had been the cause of some annoyance for a while now: it was only after deciding to wear them that both he and Jaskier had realised neither of them had a clue how to tie the damn things in the unnecessary, fancy knots that were apparently so popular at weddings. It had been a challenge, at first: bringing out both of their competitiveness to see who could achieve the best knot. They'd spent an evening last week practicing over a bottle of wine, streaming YouTube tutorials to the TV, but the impromptu lessons hadn't appeared to do any good.

He rather suspected that their failure to learn the technique was because there'd been significantly more drinking wine than there had been practising, and then halfway through the second bottle they'd realised what _else_ the strong, silky fabric could be used for.

This was also why they were now both on their second tie. Jaskier had insisted they could be sent through in the washing machine, Geralt had disagreed. Geralt had been rather unfortunately correct - and Jaskier had been forced to cough up the fifty pounds to replace them both.

And now he couldn't even get the bloody thing tied properly. He’d given up on the idea of doing anything beyond a standard kelvin knot _hours_ ago, and even then he’d still managed to fuck it up. His fingers were shaking, a little. Even when he was half-pissed he'd made a better job of this.

He sighed.

"Let me."

Eskel stepped forwards, reaching out. Geralt wanted to tell him to piss off - that he could dress his fucking self. But he didn't.

"Thanks," he muttered, as Eskel made easy work of the knot.

Eskel just laughed at him. "Who doesn't know how to tie a tie?"

He was about to respond, possibly with something biting, if not exactly clever, when there was a knock at the door - and without waiting for a response, Yen walked in. She was dressed immaculately, her dark hair in loose curls around her shoulders.

"There," his brother stepped away from him as Yen watched them looking vaguely amused. "Now you don't look like an idiot, at least."

"Isn't this sweet," she said. "Did they not make you wear a tie in school?"

“It’s been a while,” Geralt huffed.

“Is that so?” She paused, her head to one side, giving him that _knowing_ look that he recognised so well. “Are you okay?”

"Fine."

"Nervous?"

He swallowed. "No."

She raised her eyebrows at him, pursing her lips. Before she could probe him further, there was a sudden scrabbling from outside - the noise of claws against wood coupled with the clacking of heels - and the door burst open, Ciri careening into the room with Roach fast behind her. The dog bounded towards Geralt, tail wagging, scattering petals in her wake. He bent to scratch the spot behind her ear, dislodging yet more petals.

“What _happened?_ ” He asked, looking up at Ciri, who was watching him with flushed cheeks, her blonde hair bursting around the crown of flowers she had around her head.

“I tried to get her to wear a flower,” she said, utterly nonplussed. “She ate it.”

Roach - an enormous brown mutt of indeterminable breed - woofed at him, as if in agreement. There were little yellow petals caught in her mouth.

“Right,” Geralt said. "Of course she did.” Roach rolled onto her back, and he absent-mindedly rubbed her belly while her tail thumped against the floor. “Everything ready downstairs?”

“Yep,” Ciri nodded, clasping her hands together. “You’ve got ten minutes, by the way. That _was_ why I came up, but she” —she pointed at Roach, who was busy getting hair all over Geralt’s trousers— “decided she needed to come too."

Yen rolled her eyes. Geralt was fairly certain that she disapproved of the idea of having a dog attend a wedding, but she was being good natured about it regardless: likely waiting for the moment Roach took a piss over someone’s long-lost family member so she could say _I told you so_. It was probably for the best that only a few of Jaskier’s family had shown up - a few chosen and well-liked cousins, an aunt, a step-grandma. Had the rest of them been there, he would have happily directed Roach towards them himself.

He stood, brushing hair from his knees. Ciri was peering at him, her expression unreadable.

“...What?” He said, as Roach scrambled to her feet, leaning against him in a clear attempt to guilt him into more ear scratches.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

Geralt turned away, intending to check in the mirror just _how_ much Roach had ruined his suit, when she spoke again. “It’s just…”

Geralt sighed, and turned back.

“Do you _remember_...” she said, arms folded, “...when you told me there was nothing going on between you and Jask?”

_Oh, gods._ “Yes,” he said, preparing to rehash a conversation he’d had perhaps two dozen times before.

“And I didn’t believe you?”

“As you’ve told me _several_ times.”

“Do you want to know why?”

He suppressed a groan, resisting the urge to tell her - again - that there really _had_ been nothing going on. “No?”

She ignored him. “It’s because he told me that kissing you was awful.”

_That_ caught him. “You… he what?”

She grinned; a smug expression that reminded him of Yen. “I said that I couldn’t believe you two had kissed, and that it was gross.” She tilted her head to one side. “Which I stand by, by the way—”

“Thanks.”

“—And _he_ said that it was awful.” She paused. “And then he told me not to tell you that he’d said it.”

This was clearly a conversation that had happened while Geralt had still been on the drive, trying to reason with Yen - trying to convince her, too, that he and Jaskier weren’t even dating, let _alone_ engaged. Looking back on it, even looking back to the afternoon when he’d rung her to let her know what was going on, it had been clear that she hadn’t believed him, just like Ciri: or had been expecting it for some time.

“...Okay.” He frowned. “So that’s evidence, _because_..?”

“ _Because_ he was making too much fuss. If there’d been nothing going on, he would have just said it was _whatever_. Or even that it was _good_ , because he wouldn’t have cared about saving face.”

It was - Geralt had to admit - quite a solidly constructed argument. She was wrong about them secretly seeing each other, of course, but he didn’t doubt that Jaskier’s protests had been brought about by a desperate attempt not to appear overly keen.

“If it helps,” she grinned, kneeling down and gesturing to Roach, who trotted towards her, “He’s probably changed his mind since then.” She looked up at him. “ _Probably_.”

Geralt wasn't sure what else to say. “...Good?”

Yen took this chance to step in, putting a swift end to the conversation.

“Stop teasing him, Ciri,” she said - although she was smiling as she said it. “He’s already rattled. You’re going to give him a complex.”

"I am not—"

She stepped forwards, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You may have everyone else fooled,” she muttered, “but _I_ can tell when you’re nervous.”

Geralt gave her a quick, tight smile. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re doing better than him, I’ll tell you that much.”

“You spoke to him?”

“I did.”

“How… how was he?”

“When I left him he was halfway through a window, so I’d say he’s in fine form.”

“ _Yen_.”

“He’s fine. Nervous, but fine.”

“Hmm.”

“Gods, you’re _both_ impossible. If I’d known you were going to be so dramatic about the whole thing I’d have paid for you to just go to the registry office myself and skip all of this fuss.”

“I’m not being _dramatic._ ”

She raised a single, perfect eyebrow at him. “No? My mistake.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Geralt _knew_ that Yen could read him like an open book - although he suspected that Eskel had picked up on his jangling nerves, too. She was teasing him, but there was no malice to it: just easy support.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Ciri grinned, snapping Geralt out of his thoughts. “You’ve got ten minutes. Five, now. Come on, Roach.” She patted her knees and Roach jumped up, leaping around her legs in a tight circle. “Don’t be late! Or Vesemir will shout at you.”

She led Roach from the room, and Geralt could hear them clattering down the corridor, Roach barking and Ciri giggling at her. Yen gave him a quick, appraising look.

“You’re covered in hair.”

He glanced down at himself. “So I am.”

“Good job you’re marrying a man who’s also always covered in dog hair, hmm?”

It was a joke, he knew, but it still made his stomach squeeze. He’d not really gotten used to the idea that he could possibly be _marrying_ his friend - his best fucking friend - and every so often it would become suddenly, hotly _real_. It managed to take him by surprise every time. He couldn’t help but smile, and Yen snorted at him.

“Your brothers are right, you know,” she said, stepping forwards and giving him a firm hug. “You _have_ gone soft.” She leaned back, smiling at him. “Terrible, really.”

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Someone around here needs to be sensible, after all." She squeezed his shoulders, then moved back. "I should head back down with Ciri. Good luck." She paused. "Not that you'll need it."

When she'd gone, he turned back to Eskel.

“You’ve got the ring, right?”

Eskel patted his pocket. “For the last time: yes.”

“I’m just checking.”

“ _Stop_ checking,” said Eskel, giving him a gruff pat on the shoulder. “It’s fine.” He tugged at his jacket. "You're sure you're happy going it alone?"

"I'm not going it alone."

Eskel grinned at him - clearly unconvinced - then followed Yen out of the room. Geralt waited till he couldn't hear his footsteps anymore before giving himself one last, appraising look in the mirror. Truly: the suit wasn't that bad.

He turned to the enormous clock on the mantel behind him. It was time.

~

Jaskier was sure he was going to wear a hole in the expensive rug with all his pacing. He was early - it was perhaps the first time he’d been early for anything in _years_ \- but he couldn’t bear hovering about in his room for a moment longer.

The stairs behind him creaked and he spun around, heart thundering. If it was another guest, or just someone who worked in the hotel, he wasn’t sure his fragile nerves could take it.

He breathed a long-held sigh of relief as Geralt smiled down at him.

“Oh,” Geralt said, his lip quirked. “Look at you.”

Jaskier rushed forwards, pulling Geralt into a hug as soon as he’d reached the bottom of the staircase.

“Gods, I’m pleased to see you.”

Geralt buried his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. He was sturdy and strong beneath Jaskier’s arms - making his rapid heartbeat calm, a little.

“Nervous?” He said, after Jaskier failed to let him go.

“I’m _so_ fucking nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone’s going to be looking at us!”

Geralt laughed. “You’re a _singer_. You’re always the centre of attention; you love it.”

Jaskier sniffed. “This is _different_. This _matters_. I don’t want to fuck it up.”

“You won’t fuck it up.”

“You have no evidence for that. Look at the countless things I’ve fucked up over the years…” He sighed against Geralt’s chest, then leaned back to get a better look at him, attempting to pull himself together.

Gods, but it was hard to focus on how worried he felt when Geralt was looking like _that_.

“Bloody hell, Geralt.”

“What?”

“You are _exceptionally_ gorgeous, did you know that? Has anyone told you that today?”

“Not today.”

“Then let me be the first. The suit, ah… suits you. Very handsome.”

Geralt smiled at him, his head to one side: that soft, oh-so easy expression Jaskier had seen more times than he could count. It still made his heart race, his stomach flip.

“Although I maintain,” he continued, “that you really could have worn your jeans and a Primark T-shirt and I wouldn’t have cared.”

“It was an M&S T-shirt.”

“My mistake.”

“And I didn’t _want_ to wear jeans and a T-shirt.”

“So you keep saying. In any case: really. Very startlingly attractive. I’m not sure how I managed to get so lucky…”

Geralt reached up, cupping Jaskier’s jaw. “You know,” he said, voice low, “I’m nervous too.”

“Psh,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Nah. You? Never.”

He leaned in closer, and for a brief moment Geralt’s eyes darted down, towards Jaskier’s lips. “Does that mean I don’t get a kiss for good luck?”

_Gods, yes please._ But something stuttered in his chest - a hot, illogical fear.

He stopped Geralt before their lips could meet, placing a soft finger to his already pursed mouth. “Oh no you don’t.”

Geralt frowned at him. “Why not?” He mumbled against Jaskier’s skin.

Jaskier’s chest squeezed, and he was very aware how foolish he was about to sound.

“It’s bad luck, I’m sure,” he said, moving his finger away.

“Bad luck to kiss you?”

“ _Before the wedding_ , yes.”

“I assume this doesn't take into account the _thousands_ of times we’ve kissed before now?”

“It most certainly does not.”

“So why can’t I—”

“I don’t—” Jaskier started, quickly. “I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“So you’re worried about… jinxing it?”

Jaskier leaned forwards, placing his head gently against Geralt’s, peering into his golden eyes. “Something like that.”

Geralt hummed, the sound gently grounding. “You won’t.” He reached out for Jaskier’s hips, and Jaskier could feel the strength of his hands, if not their warmth. “But if you’re so worried about it, I can wait.”

They stood like that for a moment - just _existing_ \- just with each other. Jaskier was very aware that this was the last moment they’d get alone together for the rest of the night, until they tumbled into bed at some godsdamned hour the next morning. He wanted to cling to the stillness for as long as he could. It seemed like Geralt was sharing that thought, in the way he leaned against him, his hands still wrapped around his middle.

Jaskier could feel their breaths mingling warmly, could feel Geralt’s chest rising and falling where they were pressed together.

“I love you,” he muttered.

Geralt smiled - his lips only a few tempting inches away. “I love you too,” he said, eyes darting around Jaskier’s face. “But we’re going to be late to our own wedding.”

“Urgh,” Jaskier huffed. “Fine. Come on…”

They finally let one another go, heading down the corridor towards the reception room in the middle of the hotel. There was a large foyer, decked out in white and yellow flowers, with a pair of wooden double doors at one end. Someone had erected a little sign next to the door - a simple canvas thing, decorated with even more flowers, with the date, time, and their names written on it in swirling calligraphy.

_Welcome to the wedding of Geralt & Jaskier_.

It felt suddenly very _real_ \- like Jaskier had been drifting through a dream for the past few days and had only just woken up. This was _it_. Barely much more than a year ago, he would never have dared to _consider_ this was even possible.

They hovered, for a moment, in the quiet space. Then from beyond the double doors music struck up. Jaskier took another deep breath, steadying his shoulders.

“Oh,” Geralt said, turning with his eyebrows raised as if suddenly remembering something. “One thing, before we go through with this.”

Jaskier’s breath caught. “What?”

“This isn’t just a scheme to get free food and champagne, is it? Only I know you’ve got a tendency for that…”

Jaskier laughed, and the tension slipped from his shoulders, the nerves in his stomach giving way to butterflies. He reached out, taking Geralt's hand.

“Not this time.”

“Good.”

They stood for a moment, hand in hand, beside the doors. Jaskier wasn’t sure if he’d ever wanted to kiss Geralt more than in this moment. The music reached a crescendo, and the doors clicked - someone was swinging them open from the other side.

“Right,” said Geralt, squeezing Jaskier’s hand. “Ready?”

Jaskier squeezed back.

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I’m ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quickly, a couple of notes on the epilogue. Jaskier’s engagement ring i[s this one here](https://www.antiquejewellerycompany.com/shop/victorian-18ct-gold-diamond-solitaire-gypsy-ring/), which I love because of how much it looks like the sun/a star. Geralt’s [is here](https://jewelrybyjohan.com/collections/wedding-bands/products/mother-of-pearl-wedding-band-3497), and _yes_ it’s made of real dinosaur bone, which is extremely cool. Their actual wedding rings, I think, are probably just plain bands - or at least, Geralt’s is.
> 
> (If you want to have a Lot of Feelings, check out the product description on Jaskier’s ring. OOF.)
> 
> (Also, you _can_ get married at the Natural History Museum, or at least you can at the one in London.)
> 
> Right! And now that's out of the way.... Thank you so, so much to everyone who read, commented, kudosed, subscribed... I love all of you, and I've been blown away by the response to this fic. Even if I've not responded to your comment, I've read every single one (most of them at least twice) and they mean so much to me. Thank you for reading <3
> 
> If you want to see what I'm working on next, as well as the odd gifset and shitpost, come and say hello to me on tumblr, at [a-kind-of-merry-war](https://a-kind-of-merry-war.tumblr.com/) <3


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